


Larton 1 - One Bright Morning

by rhiannon15900



Series: The Larton Chronicles [1]
Category: The Professionals
Genre: A/U, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 03:28:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9529682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhiannon15900/pseuds/rhiannon15900
Summary: Ex-policeman Raymond Doyle moves to the country for some peace and quiet and meets a horse-loving William Bodie.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story is by Rhiannon, who isn't on line; it's posted with her enthusiastic consent.
> 
> I'll pass on any comments/kudos to her.
> 
> Please let me know if you spot any typos and I'll correct them.  
> HGdoghouse

THE LARTON CHRONICLES

ONE

ONE BRIGHT MORNING  
RHIANNON 

Mr Halliwell handed the letter over. "This is their latest offer, Mr Doyle. I think it unlikely they will increase the sum mentioned. I would advise you to accept." 

Mr Raymond Doyle, once a police officer and now a reasonably successful crime novelist, studied the page gloomily. 

"I'm still not happy about those changes they've made," he complained. "Turning that poor down-trodden seamstress into a court dressmaker! Load of rubbish! I told 'em they were wrong but they didn't seem interested in the truth. Look at that film they made on Jack the Ripper. Just a load of crap!" 

"I prefer not to," said Mr Halliwell. "I'm afraid the entertainment media prefer their crime with a...certain gloss. The truth is so often undramatic, and in this case extremely sordid, too." 

"I suppose so," said Doyle. "Still, they can always read my book if they want to find out the truth. I'd just like them to get it right for once!" 

"You will accept the offer then?" asked his literary agent. 

"Yes. I need a decent sum of money right away. I'm going to move outside London. I was broken into again last week - they made a hell of a mess. And the noise. I can't hear myself think some nights. I want to get out before I corner the market in Valium." 

Mr Halliwell noticed that he was moving uneasily in his chair. "That leg giving you trouble again?" he asked. 

"Yeah. I think it's the weather. Go ahead, tell 'em I accept - and to get their cheque through fast. I want to start house-hunting while I'm in the mood." 

"Very well. I'll phone you as soon as everything is settled." 

oOo

Mr Doyle looked with distaste at the very bijou residence before him: passing overhead was Concorde. It did not add to the building's charms when you realised it was under a direct flight path to Heathrow. 

"Look," said Doyle with asperity, "when I said I didn't need a large place I did mean something bigger than a bloody dog kennel - and without a scenic view of the local gasworks. Not to mention that thing up there." He gestured after the inoffensive plane. "You know, your descriptions of these places are the best fiction I've read in months. You should put in for the Booker Prize." 

The estate agent looked harassed: it had been a very trying morning. "Well, sir, we do have one other place on our books that might suit you, but I'm afraid it's well off the motorway." 

"As long as they still speak English out there I'll take a look at it," said Doyle. 

 

The village of Larton lacked tourist appeal, Doyle noted with pleasure, as they drove through it: no well-known person, he ascertained, had lived or died there; no battles had been fought in the vicinity; the buildings lacked architectural merit; the church, thanks to its Victorian restorers, would not be on anyone's top ten list, while the most that could be said for the Post Office cum General Store, the Brewers Arms and the Dissenting Chapel with the tin roof, was that they served their purpose. The village was not on the way to anywhere special and the nearest motorway link, by a happy chance, was a considerable distance away. 

"Here we are," said Mr Milton, the estate agent, with what was patently false enthusiasm. He stopped the car and gestured towards a large house some way back from the road. 

"Now that's Larton Manor. It's on our books too," he added hopefully. 

"My God," said Doyle reverently. "You'll have a job shifting that." 

"Yes," replied the estate agent gloomily. "Sad to think that under that revolting Victorian Gothic are the remains of a quite pleasant Georgian manor house - it's riddled with dry rot, of course. The stable block is the best part of the house; it seems to have been the only part of the buildings that received any noticeable maintenance after 1900, apart from having main drainage laid on." 

"I'm not buying it," said Doyle with conviction. "Now, where's this lodge house?" 

"Just a short way further down the road. It's a listed building now. Fortunately they couldn't afford to renovate it at the same time as the house - it's a point in its favour now, of course. Damn!" 

He braked sharply to avoid a horse turning suddenly into the road from a byway. The rider steadied his mount and proceeded to treat them to his opinion of their traffic sense. From his seat Doyle could see nothing but a booted leg in a stirrup and a prancing horse. They moved on, stopping outside a small lodge house with a very overgrown garden. 

Doyle looked it over critically. It was not that big but roomier than many he'd seen so far, and while it needed some work done it shouldn't be too expensive. 

"Is it on the main sewer?" he inquired. "I'm not having another septic tank - had one when I was a kid." 

"Yes, Mr Doyle, it is. Would you like to see inside?" 

Doyle entered, sniffing suspiciously for damp; the place smelled musty but reasonable. Inquiring about the damp course, he was assured a new one had been put in recently. He looked at the kitchen, which needed redecorating. There's plenty of room for my books and files in the living-room and I could make that a through room, he thought. The bathroom would be adequate if I can get a decent shower put in - that bath looks like an antique. He glanced into the large bedroom - the other so-called bedroom was more in the tiny box room league - and then prowled about some more. 

"Subject to survey, I'll take it," he said finally. "It could be what I'm looking for - if the price is right. What about the other lodge?" 

"Not for sale," said Mr Milton. "The previous owner of the manor lives there - the gentleman on the horse we met down the road. You have your own access to the road as you see." 

"Good," said Doyle. "I wouldn't like to keep falling over the lord of the manor. I'm not very good at touching my forelock." 

oOo

Six months later Doyle picked his way through the debris of what would be his kitchen and lit a cigarette; his doctor wouldn't have approved but it just might stop him taking an axe to Billie and Charlie, who were companionably drinking their tea under the apple tree in his overgrown back garden. 

Selling his London flat had been a breeze, people queuing up to buy what he'd always considered an undersized, badly-designed rabbit hutch with constant stereophonic sound from the neighbours at all hours. The owner of the other lodge had been equally willing to sell to him, just scrawling his signature at the foot of the deed before departing across the Irish Sea. Doyle, who disapproved of the landed gentry, hoped he intended to stay there permanently. 

But here he was, with his furniture in store, living in a genteel hotel in the nearby market town while waiting for Billie and Charlie to get their bloody fingers out and get some work done! 

Charlie ambled in. "Getting on well, isn't it, Mr Doyle?" he said, looking round complacently. "Expect you're looking forward to moving in. It's a nice little place. Now how about a dado over there?" 

"I think not," said Doyle, gritting his teeth. "How much longer is it going to take to get in here before the winter floods?" 

"Oh, just another week or two," said Charlie vaguely. "Now we've got that wall down. That was a job. Built to last, that wall was." 

Doyle muttered darkly and took himself off to the local pub, whose main features were low ceilings and warm beer. He had already been tagged as the Londoner who had bought the East Lodge and did something odd for a living. He'd been uninformative on the subject and now sat listening to the local gossip: the manor had been bought by a rich Arab, or one of those pop stars, or was going to be used by the SAS for a new training-ground. Seeing Mr Milton later in the village, Doyle inquired which, if any, of these stories were true. 

"None, I'm afraid," said Mr Milton. "We may have to suggest to Mr Bodie that he raffles the place at this rate. When he returns." 

"Thought he'd left for good," said Doyle. "Talk is, he was going to invest the cash from my place in a distillery. Well, that's one of the stories." 

Mr Milton raised an eyebrow. "Ah, yes. He's an army officer; he should be back here very shortly." 

That, as far as Doyle was concerned, put the final nail in Mr Bodie's coffin. He could just see him: red-faced, handlebar moustache, barking at everyone. Treating you like a very junior officer or worse, he thought. 

Thankfully, the following week Mr Halliwell rang and suggested Mr Doyle might consider a trip to New York over the book he was currently publishing. Doyle agreed with alacrity. Mr Halliwell, later counting the cost of transatlantic phone calls to smooth ruffled feelings, reflected that he should have been warned by Mr Doyle's unusual acquiescence to his suggestions. 

However, when Doyle returned to Larton, he found the work finished - and it was even to his satisfaction. After a few more hiccups he had his furniture moved in and settled down to enjoy a quiet country life. 

oOo

It was a fine sunny day at the end of July when, standing in the inevitable queue in the Post Office, Doyle became aware of an excited voice behind him. 

"Now we must be there early, Mabel. I've set my heart on the walnut tallboy and I know Mrs Harris has her eye on it too. She'd never get it through the door of her poky little cottage. Ideas above her station that one - she's talking about getting the crochet set too!" 

Crochet set, mused Doyle. Surely not... 

"Are you going to the sale too, Mr Doyle?" asked the postmistress. 

"What sale?" he asked. 

The postmistress indicated a notice: 'Sale at Larton Manor. Thursday, 6th August. Furniture, Objets d'art, Books, Tools, Sundries, etc.' 

"Might as well look in," said Doyle. "I could pick up some bits and pieces." 

"Not much chance of anything decent," snorted one old lady. "That lot never had two pennies to rub together. The old squire must have turned in his grave after they moved in. Not that she wasn't a lady, when she was there." 

The postmistress smiled reminiscently. "I remember the parties they used to give, high old times we had." 

"Chase anything in a skirt, those lads would," the old dame went on. "And their elder girl as bad over the boys. Not a word from their father - not that he could talk, not with Elsie Parsons - " 

"Now, Mavis," said another voice, "that's just wild gossip, even if her Felicity did look the image of the colonel." 

"And she's not the only one in this village with that face," said a sombre voice. "You can take a look at young Ashley for a start - " 

Sadly, at that moment Doyle received the stamps he had been waiting for and had to leave. It all still happened in the country, he noted - just that the news seemed to get round more. 

The sale turned out better than anticipated. Doyle acquired an armchair, a bookcase and a small table with some garden tools. He would have to do something with that nature reserve developing round his house, he decided. He was just arranging for the local carter to have the furniture delivered to his house when he overheard: 

"Oh, mother, what did you get that for? It's all brown and horrible!" 

"It looked better from a distance," came the disappointed answer. 

Doyle glanced at the painting in its dusty frame; it was just the size he liked for his Sunday painting. 

"If you've changed your mind I'll have that," he said. "How much did you give for it?" 

Fifty pence changed hands and he left with the painting under his arm. 

It was a week or two before he had time to examine it closely. He didn't like just to chuck someone else's hard work away, so he eased the painting from its frame carefully; the parts not obscured by the frame and the discoloured varnish didn't look bad at all: perhaps it would be worth getting it cleaned and reframed. He would ask Marion next time he was in London, he decided. 

oOo 

Marion studied the painting closely. "Well, it's not a missing old master, if you were hoping," she remarked, "but I do think it's definitely worth cleaning. Would you like me to do it?" 

"Yes," said Doyle. "I picked it up at a sale. It must be of one of the family who owned the manor, I suppose. I'll pick it up at the end of the month when I have to come up to collect the proofs. Will that be all right?" 

"Yes, that will give me enough time. It's very quiet here at the moment. How are you settling in? Not missing the rich variety of London life? Peter was mugged again last month, he wasn't hurt badly, thank God." 

"Not missing a damn thing," said Doyle fervently. "I should have moved out years ago." 

oOo

It was six weeks before Doyle returned to the studio. 

"I was beginning to wonder what had happened to you," said Marion. "Your painting is ready." She showed him the now cleaned and reframed painting on the wall. "What do you think of it?" she asked. 

"Hey, that's not bad at all," said Doyle. "Best fifty pence I've spent in a long time." 

"And my fee," said Marion. "You wouldn't consider selling him, would you? I've become very fond of looking at him hanging there. I checked the artist's name - he was a reasonably good portrait painter of the time - and asked a friend of mine if there is a list of his paintings, to help you identify the sitter. Handsome, isn't he?" 

"If you like the pretty type," said Doyle. "No, he's not for sale. I'll tell people he was my great-great-grandfather who threw away the family fortune at Crockford's, then went out and shot himself." 

"You would too," said Marion laughing. "If I find out any more I'll let you know. Look after yourself, Ray." 

oOo

The painting seemed to settle down at once on Doyle's study wall. He was looking at it late one afternoon, distracted from his proofreading. 

Wonder what you did do, he said to himself. Regency costume's very fancy - did you dice with Prinny at Brighton, or just vegetate down here? I'd like to know some time. Oh hell! He turned reluctantly back to his checking. I'll never get done at this rate. I'll make some tea, then I'll get stuck in. 

There was a knock on the door. Doyle opened it and stood transfixed. Apart from the clothes it could have been the man in the painting on his doorstep. 

"Excuse me, you are Mr Doyle?" 

He nodded. 

"I believe you purchased a painting at the manor sale recently. It was included in error. I would like to discuss buying it from you. My name is Bodie." 

"Ah," said Doyle. "The family that owned the manor. You'd better come in then. We can talk about it." 

Mr Bodie entered and stared at the painting. "It's been cleaned," he remarked. 

"Yes. Come up well, hasn't it?" said Doyle. "Good-looking lad. Relation of yours, is he?" 

Mr Bodie went rather pink. "A distant one," he said. 

"I was just putting the kettle on," said Doyle. "Care for a cup of tea?" He shifted four books from a chair to the already overflowing table and removed three dirty cups; his visitor's face remained studiously blank. 

"I'll just rinse these through," said Doyle. "I thought you were in Ireland. An army man, I heard." 

"Yes," said Mr Bodie. "I'm on leave at the moment." 

Can tell, thought Doyle. All spit and polish, for all that those clothes have seen better days. But so like the painting: dark hair, blue eyes. But not that wistful look; heavier build too, and a very stubborn set to that jaw. Definitely military, Bodie seemed to fill the small room. 

"Here you are." Doyle passed his visitor a cup of tea. "Cake's in that tin." 

"Thank you." Mr Bodie ignored the cake. "Would you consider selling the painting back to me?" 

"I'll have to think about that," said Doyle. "I've got quite fond of him. He lends my place a touch of class. I was going to pass him off as my great etc. grandfather. Now I've seen you, that could be difficult. Why do you want him back anyway? You hadn't looked after the painting at all! It cost a bob or two to get him cleaned up. What was he, the black sheep or something?" 

Mr Bodie's face was glacial. "Nothing of the kind," he said. "The painting had merely been overlooked. I heard you were from London, Mr Doyle?" His tone added, And no better than I expected. "This is your weekend cottage, I suppose?" 

"No," said Doyle, "this is my home. You live at West Lodge, don't you - the place that looks as though it's blancoed every morning? It must be difficult for an old family like yours to have to - " 

Mr Bodie rose. "I can see you're busy. I won't take up any more of your time. If you do decide to sell the painting you know where I live. Good afternoon." 

Doyle watched him go. "Stiff-necked sod. Thought I'd just hand you over, touching my forelock," he remarked to the painting. "Didn't want to go with him, did you? He'll be a lot tougher than you, my lad, for all he has the same handsome face." 

However, after a night's sleep the Doyle conscience - always a problem - was in full cry. He had not behaved well and Mr Bodie had been civil enough - for one of his sort. He must have caught me at a bad moment. I'd better walk over and explain I've become attached to the painting. Don't really need to go at all, he told himself. Ah, but you're curious about him, aren't you - and the painting. Can't stop being a bloody detective. Mind made up, he glanced at the sky. It looked like a fine day, he'd walk over the fields to West Lodge. 

Hope they never build on here, he thought as he walked along, then stumbled over a tree root, wrenching his leg. He stood swearing a moment, then carried on. The front garden of the lodge looked as if it had been brushed and combed, reminding him he hadn't put a fork to his patch yet. A large cat looked at him suspiciously from one of the small front windows. He knocked but there was no answer. He made his way round the back where he saw Mr Bodie at the end of the long garden, wrestling with some bushes. Doyle sauntered down to him. 

"Fine day," he remarked. 

"Is it?" said Bodie morosely. "Grab hold of that branch for me, will you?" 

Doyle did so. "Thorny little buggers, aren't they?" he remarked. "What are they?" 

"Gooseberries," said Mr Bodie. "Can tell you're from London. Find us quaint, do you?" 

"Not especially," said Doyle. "More like humourless and unwelcoming." 

"I'd better put that right then," said Mr Bodie. "Come on, it's after eleven and I'm fed up with this lot." He led the way indoors. 

Doyle glanced round with interest. As he had expected, everything was neat and tidy. He glanced at the well-filled bookcases while Bodie was delving in the fridge and walked over and began to look through the books. He spotted a familiar cover. Yes, he had one, no, three of his books - and not from the public library either. He pulled one out, remembering that he couldn't stand the book jacket. Must remember to tell Halliwell I'm not having that jerk do another cover, he thought. 

Mr Bodie came back into the room with two cans of beer. "You're not that R. Doyle, are you?" he asked surprised. 

"Thanks. Yes, I am. Why not?" asked Doyle mildly. 

"I thought you'd be much older. It said on the jacket you'd retired from the force. I heard you were a writer but thought you'd be knocking out articles for the New Statesman, that kind of thing - some sort of left-wing loony." 

"I had to pack it in early," said Doyle. "And there's nothing wrong with the New Statesman except its editor, who's a jerk. I expected you to have a brick-red face, a handlebar moustache, be ninety years old, with a limited intellect and surrounded with pictures of the regiment." 

"One of us was wrong then," said Bodie. "Regimental photos are over there, I look dreadful with a moustache, and was considered incredibly bright at school." 

Doyle wandered over and inspected the photographs, identifying his host in a very old-fashioned get-up of boots, breeches and Sam Browne. Irish Army? he thought. 

"An Irish regiment?" he asked. "I thought you were something in the Middle East? Village rumour is that you're a sort of Beau Geste." 

"How gratifying," said Bodie. "Sadly, no, just boring peace-keeping in God-forsaken holes for the U.N. We have had a force there for some time. Would you like a meal? I always make enough to stick in the freezer." 

"Yes, I'd like that," said Doyle, his curiosity now fully aroused. 

"I like your books," Bodie remarked as they ate. "Better than a lot of the rubbish that comes out. Appreciate the amount of research you do - don't just rehash someone else's opinions all the time. 

"I forgot the wine." 

He went out and returned with a bottle. "I'm getting low. I'll have to find some more." He filled Doyle's glass. "Working on anything now? I heard one of your books had been made into a film." 

"Yes," said Doyle. "I wouldn't bother to go and see it. Only the names will be the same - if that - by the time it's finished. If I ever get the bloody proofs finished I'll have another out next year. Hello, puss!" A large cat had entered the room. 

"Meet Frobisher," said Mr Bodie. "He's from the farm really, but he's adopted me. He seems to like you." Frobisher, purring like an engine, rubbed against Doyle's leg. 

"I like cats," said Doyle. "I'm thinking of getting one. There's plenty of space for it to roam out here. Not like London." 

"Inquire of Highgreen Farm," said Bodie. "They often have a litter there. Tell Jess I sent you - she'll pick you out a good 'un." 

They finished off with cheese and crackers, brandy and coffee. Doyle sat back. "That was very good, thank you," he said. 

"You're welcome. How do you really find the village?" 

"Very pleasant. Rather slow, but I'll get used to that. I was fed up with the noise and rush in London. Enjoy being able to work here without interruption. I didn't believe there were still places like this: pubs with rafters you can bang your head on, village smithy with a spreading chestnut tree. Does he still shoe horses?" 

"He shod mine last week," said Bodie. "Which reminds me, I'm late taking him out. He hasn't been exercised today. I keep him stabled at the farm. Come on, I'll introduce you to Jess. You can see about a kitten now." 

Doyle nodded; he was curious about Highgreen Farm. If all the stories he had heard of what went on there were true it rivalled Peyton Place. Bodie led the way into the farmyard; it looked normal enough - large and muddy, with the usual stack of pungent manure. 

"We have the village hop in that barn there," said Bodie, pointing. "You will hear the music from your house. Ah, there she is. Hey, Jessie!" 

She turned, and Doyle heard his inner voice saying, Coooor! Jessie Bleavins, he decided, would have probably stopped the traffic in Trafalgar Square by breathing deeply; in short, she was what some men would call 'a good armful'. 

Mr Bodie walked over to her. "This is Mr Doyle, Jess. He has moved into East Lodge." 

Mrs Bleavins beamed at Doyle and gave him a quick appraisal. "We heard you'd moved in, Mr Doyle. Getting nicely settled, are you?" 

"Yes," said Doyle. "Thought I'd like to keep a cat. Mr Bodie said you might have a kitten to spare." 

"Yes, we can fix you up. William, get that horse out, he's been kicking his box for hours!" 

"I'll see to him now," said Bodie. He walked over to her and whispered something in her ear. She gave him a quick thump. 

"Behave yourself! This way, Mr Doyle." 

She led the way into what was obviously the farm shop. "Now, do you fancy any colour in particular?" she asked. 

"No, not really," said Doyle. "Not keen on ginger ..." 

"Well, we have a nice little black and white tom here - you won't want the bother of kittens. Give over now, Lisa, he's got to go sometime and Mr Doyle will give him a good home." She appeared to be parrying something under the counter, then reappeared, giving Doyle a splendid view of her attributes. For a moment he didn't see the small black and white kitten she was holding. 

"There you are, sir. He's been house-trained. Lisa is a good mother - she's had plenty of practice at it." 

Doyle examined the kitten critically. "He looks fine to me. I'll have him. Can I pick up some butter and eggs tomorrow?" 

"Yes, I'll put some on one side for you. Oh, drat, William's forgotten that old bridle and he'll be sure to need it. I'll take it down to him." 

Doyle watched her making her way into the stables. Interesting, he thought. I wonder if the horse will be the only one getting some exercise. 

oOo 

Kasper settled in happily and Doyle went back to his endless proofreading. He saw Mr Bodie occasionally, at a distance, riding a large grey, otherwise his social contacts were limited to Mrs Bleavins at the farm shop and an occasional pint at the Brewers Arms when he felt like a walk into the village. 

He wondered about Mr Bleavins - he never seemed to be around. On bringing the matter up at the pub, the only information Doyle could glean was of the nudge-nudge variety, or 'now there's a tale', but he was not enlightened further except for the rumour that the beer had boiled over in the glasses on the night Jess was helping out in the bar. He discounted this - the beer was warm enough without outside assistance. The villagers were seemingly not disposed to gossip about their own to an outsider, but he heard enough to gather that his neighbour at West Lodge was considered 'a bit of a lad' and 'you only have to look at young Ashley to see what I mean - and a couple more too!' Doyle had not yet met Ashley, whose name sounded like that of a house. 

At last Doyle finished the proofreading but had the further annoyance of a visit to London. He did not trust his proofs to British Rail; they had once lost an entire set on the shortest possible journey across London. He still wondered where they had gone. Perhaps even now a tribe of Mongol herdsmen in Inner or Outer Mongolia were trying to disentangle his plot. On reaching London Doyle found that his publisher, with whom he had wanted a few words, was out, the parcel being accepted with suspicious alacrity by his secretary. 

She kept reiterating that, "Mr Maxwell will not be back today, or tomorrow. I'm afraid he's at an important meeting." 

Balked of someone to complain to, Doyle took Marion out to lunch instead. They had met many years ago in Art School; he had gone on to the police force, she to an occasionally fraught existence as an illustrator and picture restorer. They had, at one point, discussed marriage, then regretfully decided it would spoil the easy relationship they enjoyed. He was telling her about the village over their lunch. 

"Hunt a lot down there, do they?" Marion asked, as she demolished her Chicken Maryland. 

"Mad on it," said Doyle gloomily. "Not foxes - I gather one hasn't been seen in years; something called a drag. They're having one later this month. People keep asking me if I can ride. I told 'em the internal combustion engine had replaced the horse - don't think they've heard that yet. My neighbour drives the most clapped-out old wreck you've ever seen and has a grey turned out as though he's straight from the Royal Mews. They're a funny lot." 

"Well, if you want to get in with the county set you'll have to ride," said Marion. "One of my cousins hunts with the Beaufort - he says you wouldn't believe what goes on at and after Hunt Balls. Seems there's only one thing they like better than a good gallop across country, you know? He says the local papers are full of stories that Lady X, mother of six, has run off with Sir George Griptight Thygh, Master of Hounds, or to quote an article he wrote himself: 'Some of the most sensual romances in England flourish as the participants gallop stirrup to stirrup over the muddy fields.' Humphrey was asked to leave a Hunt Ball and threatened with a horsewhip after he wrote that. It's true too." 

"My word," said Doyle, "think I'll have to brush up on my canter. I can't see Mrs Bleavins, our local siren, galloping sidesaddle over the fences. Anyway, I'm pretty sure my neighbour has his boots under that particular bed - and plenty of others." 

"Reminds me," said Marion. "That painting is of William Bodie, Squire of Larton Manor and that's about all I can tell you. I haven't been able to turn up anything about the gentleman, except the painting is mid-Regency period. He wasn't an outstanding rake or we would have heard of him, I imagine. I hoped there might be something in it for you. Any ideas for your next book?" 

"At the moment," said Doyle, "I feel as though I never want to see another sheet of blank paper again! Thought I'd never finish those damned proofs. Let me know if you do turn anything up, would you? Pudding?" 

"Um ... Bombe Surprise, I think, and good luck with the riding." 

oOo 

Doyle arrived home with relief, surprised at how quickly he had come to accept his new home and the village. Kasper welcomed him with enthusiasm. After feeding him, Doyle set off to the farm for his usual order. Mrs Bleavins was presiding over a set of monumental cheeses, with a barrel of apples flanking the counter. Doyle purchased a wedge of cheese and looked at the apples. 

"Early Worcesters, Mr Doyle," she remarked. "Give over, Ashley, do!" she added, absently thumping a small boy who emerged from under the counter to fix Doyle with a wide stare from bright blue eyes. There was a clatter of hooves in the yard. 

"Piper!" yelled Ashley. Grabbing an apple, he hurried out. 

"I'll have a pound of apples," said Doyle. He glanced out of the open door; Ashley appeared to be bargaining for a ride, the apple being a bribe for Piper. 

"I'll just take him for a gallop, Jess." Doyle recognised Mr Bodie's voice. 

Jess turned her attention to Doyle again. "Drag hunt's next week, Mr Doyle. If you would like to come I'm sure William could find you a horse. Everyone will be going." 

"I don't think..." Doyle began. 

Bodie entered, Ashley tucked firmly under one arm, giggling. 

"He wanted to stay out," said Bodie. 

"Off you go, Ashley," said his mother. "Homework time." He went reluctantly. 

"I was asking Mr Doyle here if he would like to go out with the hunt," she continued, as Bodie took an apple from the barrel and began to crunch it. 

"It's not like Rotten Row here, you know," he remarked. "No good coming out with us if you can't jump. Some of the biggest banks in England out there." 

His tone indicated he considered Doyle an effete townie whose riding was probably confined to the donkeys at Southend. Generations of horse-coping Doyles began to murmur in protest. 

"Just you get me a good horse and we'll see if I'm up to it!" said Doyle. 

Mr Bodie shrugged. "I'll see what I can do. Jess will let you know if I find one. The Meet's on Friday next, outside the Brewers Arms, ten o'clock." 

"See you there," said Doyle. He was halfway home before sanity returned. He hadn't ridden since he was - what, fifteen at the most. What on earth had possessed him? No, he knew the answer to that; it was Bodie looking down his nose at him. And Ashley's the image of him. Probably still do the droit de seigneur bit around here. Too posh to marry the mother of his son. I know his sort - just because his family have lorded it here for generations. Well, that doesn't cut any ice with me, but for now I'd do well to consult the yellow pages for the nearest riding school and fix up some lessons. Not too near, either. If Bodie found out he would probably wet himself laughing. 

oOo

Mrs Bleavins informed Doyle a few days later that a suitable horse had been found for him. 

"That's nice," he said hollowly. 

The night before the Meet he realised something else; he would have to ring Bodie. 

There was a delay before the telephone was picked up. Mr Bodie sounded tired. 

"Mr Bodie? Sorry to disturb you," said Doyle insincerely, "but what about a saddle? And I haven't got a red coat." Perhaps, he thought, 11 p.m. is a bit late to ring. Still, wake the sod up. 

"You don't wear hunting pink for a drag," said a cool voice, "and as a non-Hunt member you wouldn't anyway. Sure you want to go?" 

"Of course I bloody want to go," said Doyle. "But what should I wear?" 

There was a definite whispered suggestion in a female voice and then a hand went over the mouthpiece from the silence. After some scuffling Mr Bodie spoke again: 

"Oh, come as you are. I'll fix up the tack. Good night." 

Doyle was dubious about 'come as you are'. He surmised that Mr Bodie had something else on his mind - or in his bed - which prevented him giving the query the proper consideration. He couldn't see himself riding in any degree of comfort in blue jeans, and his cords were too good to ruin on a horse. He consulted Mrs Bleavins, who informed him that Mrs Perkins' Tommy was a small lad, and he wasn't wearing his riding clothes now, having taken up with those awful motor bikes. She was sure she'd lend him what he needed. 

After an interview with Mrs Perkins (butcher's shop) and the cost of three pounds, Doyle had coat, breeches and boots; they fitted tolerably well, except for the boots which were on the small side. Still, I don't expect to do much walking, Doyle thought. 

He arrived at the Meet, a little late, to find the village green opposite the Brewers Arms awash with horses and riders. They all seemed in a very jocular mood, probably because most of the riders were clutching large pints of ale; the village apparently did not go in for a genteel stirrup-cup. He saw Mrs Bleavins hurling Ashley up onto a pony the spitting image of the one in Thelwell's cartoons: its name appeared to be Bodger. She walked over to Doyle and pressed a foaming tankard into his hand. 

"As it's so warm we thought a nice glass of cold beer would be best," she said. 

Oh yes, thought Doyle, I can feel it swilling about me as I go over those banks. Why am I here? 

In answer, Bodie appeared, leading a chunky brown cob. It looked docile enough. Doyle viewed it with distrust. Mr Bodie, hat on the back of his head and pint in his free hand, beamed at him expansively. 

"Meet Victor," he said. "Goes like a lamb. Amy from the vicarage rides him, but she's laid up this season. Just see that he gets enough exercise. You haven't got a hat?" 

"No," said Doyle. "I don't wear a hat. Ever." 

"Have to have a hat. Fred!" Bodie bawled. "Lad here hasn't got a hat!" 

Fred, whom Doyle recognised as a local farmer with the habitually morose expression of his kind, ambled over. He looked at Doyle. 

"Mavis," he ordered, "go and borrow your brother's. It should fit him." 

"Fred's the Master," said Bodie. "Here we are, stick that on. You should get your hair cut, you'll never get a decent hat to fit with all that lot flopping about." 

Doyle resisted - with difficulty - the urge to push Bodie's pint mug down his throat. 

"Now, Ashley," Mrs Bleavins was saying, "be a good boy and do whatever William and Mr Stebbins tell you. You stay close to them, Mr Doyle, and you'll be all right." 

"You don't need to worry with Victor," said Mr Bodie bracingly. "He's done this run dozens of times: a three-year-old could take him round. But don't get too close to Piper's heels - he won't like it." 

"It's a pity Amy's missing the season after that fall," said Mrs Bleavins. "Still, they say when that leg's out of traction she'll be good as new." 

"Still can't understand how they fell at that bank," said Bodie. "Not like her at all, that. Just time for another pint before we're off." 

Doyle wished they would all just shut up and get on with it. 

"The hounds!" yelled Ashley. 

Doyle looked at the mass of dogs which erupted onto the green; they struck him as a motley, undisciplined crowd and he was glad he'd left Kasper safely locked up. Everyone was hurriedly finishing their drinks while Mrs Bleavins and assorted helpers collected glasses. Riders began to mount their horses: Doyle looked at Victor sternly. 

"We haven't met before, Victor, but be warned, I know too much about horses!" He decided to swallow his pride and use the mounting-block; his leg, already complaining in the too tight boot, wasn't likely to stand for the normal method of mounting. 

Mr Bodie watched him, then came over to check his girth. "Better pull it up a notch for you. Victor blows out - you could find yourself upside down. Move your leg, man!" 

Doyle glared at him, then shifted his leg so Bodie could tighten the girth. 

"There, that should do it. Just keep with the main bunch. Watch that dun with the red ribbon in his tail - he's a kicker. And watch out for Bodger, he likes to nip in front - I nearly fell over the bugger last month. Right, Fred!" 

The hunt moved slowly off, cheered on by the local children, trotting down one of the lanes, then off into the open fields; the hounds began to call. 

"They've picked up the scent," said Bodie. "You all right, Doyle?" 

"Yes." It was a fine day, Doyle thought. He'd forgotten how good it could be to be up on a horse again. He sniffed the air as the hounds began to move faster. 

"We're off!" yelled a rubicund gentleman, whom Doyle now recognised as the local doctor. He had just discovered he was on his 'panel' and wasn't sure he cared for the fact his doctor was a hunting man. 

Victor began to pull hard; he seemed to be trying to get up to the front with Piper and Gert, Mr Stebbins' mount. Doyle wondered if they normally rode together, then stifled a curse as a madly galloping Bodger cut right in front of him. After a few moments he realised that Bodger constituted a major traffic hazard, as a storm of curses from nearby riders confirmed. However, this had no effect on Bodger, who continued forging ahead to shrieks of delight from Ashley, apparently kept in the saddle by gravity alone. Doyle looked around: apart from himself and possibly two of the ladies present, he wouldn't care to breathalyse this bunch. Victor was now galloping hard on Piper's heels and they were approaching what looked like Becher's Brook, only larger. 

"Oh shit!" said Doyle. 

As the rest of the pack was thundering on his heels there was no chance of pulling up. He looked for a convenient gap; there wasn't one so he sat down hard, as his grandfather had taught him, and prayed. Piper rocketed over the bank ahead of him. Not bad, thought Doyle; his rider was no lightweight. Then Victor followed suit. The descent on the other side of the bank seemed to have been modelled on the Cresta Run, but both horses took it in their stride. After that Doyle just sat down, enjoyed the trip and left the decisions to Victor. 

As they pounded across what seemed endless miles of muddy fields, always with the unspeakable Bodger not far behind, he heard a shout as a rider to his left took a crashing fall. They were now pounding down a muddy lane, then, to Doyle's relief as a large muddy clod narrowly missed his left ear, the hounds seemed to lose the scent and circled about, yelping dismally. 

"Not a bad run," said Bodie, looking back at him; his face was liberally splattered with mud. "You kept up well, Doyle." 

"Victor seemed to want to," said Doyle. Credit where it was due, he thought. 

"Yes, Amy and I usually ride together. Ashley!" he roared, "you stay right there!" 

Doyle winced as Bodie's voice, guaranteed to carry across ten miles of hunting country, grated on his ear. Bodie walked his horse over to Ashley and Bodger. Doyle could not hear what was being said but Bodie's gestures offered hints. 

"...And take your bloody pony and go!" 

Ashley gazed up. His lower lip trembled, and even Bodger quivered. Then, with a howl, Ashley buried his face in his pony's mane. 

"You're always rotten to him," he wailed. "He didn't mean any harm. It's not his fault they can't keep up with him." Large tears were splashing down his round face. 

Doyle, amused, watched Bodie disintegrate before this attack. 

"All right," Bodie said through gritted teeth, "but the little sod goes on a leading rein before he has someone down. Maud, can you take him?" 

"No problem, William. Bring him over, Ashley." 

Ashley hugged Mr Bodie's leg thankfully, which transferred even more mud to his person, then led his pony over to Maud. The rest of the hunt had now caught them up, several looking much the worse for wear. 

"Bodie!" roared the doctor, tossing his hip-flask over. Bodie caught it deftly and took a long drink. He offered it to Doyle, who shook his head; he was beginning to feel a deep-seated ache in his bad leg. 

There was a shriek of delight from Ashley. "They've found the scent again!" 

"Oh God," said Doyle, but thankfully the banks did not seem as high on this run and Victor dropped back from the leaders. To his deep regret Doyle missed seeing Bodie and Piper come to grief; Piper, for once taking the easy jump, had landed square in a very muddy pond and then apparently settled there with a resigned expression on his calm face. Mr Bodie had been forced to abandon ship, to the detriment of his clothes, to haul his mount ashore while the rest of the hunt fell about. A pervasive odour of pond clung about him. 

Doyle sighed with relief as he saw the village coming into view again. When they halted at the green, Maud came over. 

"I could take Victor home with me," she said. "The vicarage is on my way." 

"Thank you," said Doyle. Passing her Victor's reins he dismounted with care and looked about: Mrs Bleavins was leading away a very happy and filthy Ashley and Bodger; Mr Bodie was trying to wash the worst of the mud off his boots at the pump. After a while he gave up on them and came over to Doyle. 

"Enjoy the run?" he asked. 

Doyle, leaning on the wall and praying the pain in his leg would ease up, stared at him. 

"I..." he began. 

The pain peaked. Sick and dizzy, Doyle grabbed at his questioner's solid body. 

 

When Doyle's head cleared he was lying on a sofa in the back parlour of the Brewers Arms. The landlady and Bodie were both leaning over him, looking anxious. The doctor pushed them aside. 

"Better get that boot off, William. Do it carefully. I didn't realise it was you at first, Mr Doyle. What on earth were you doing hunting without a proper support boot - all that jarring at the jumps!" 

Bodie took out a knife. "You're going to owe Tommy Perkins for a new pair of boots," he said as he began to slit the boot open. 

"You watch it with that knife!" said Doyle. 

The boot was removed very gently. "Why the hell didn't you tell me about this?" asked Bodie, staring at the swollen, damaged leg. 

"None of your damn business," said Doyle. 

"Well," said the doctor, "you're going to have to keep off it for a few days." He looked round. "Thomas, will you take Diamond home for me and ask Fred if we can borrow his car to take Mr Doyle home? Bodie, you can help get him into it." 

"I can manage," said Doyle aggressively. He got to his feet, managed a few steps and sagged against the wall. 

"Don't be an idiot," said Bodie, settling him back on the sofa. "I'll have the lads carry you out on a chair." 

Fuming, Doyle was carried out and settled into the car. 

"Here he is, John," said Bodie. "I'll be over as soon as I've stabled Piper." 

The car started up, drowning Doyle's yell of, "Don't bother!" 

Dr Ryan helped Doyle onto his own sofa and bandaged the leg. "Now keep off that as much as possible. You have some painkillers?" 

"Yes, thanks for the lift home." 

"I'll call tomorrow. Here's Bodie now." 

Doyle heard them talking in the hall before Bodie walked in; he had washed and changed. Doyle looked at him without enthusiasm. 

"I thought that with living alone you could do with some help," said Bodie. 

"I like it that way, I can manage fine." 

"Ha!" said Bodie, looking about. "Any coffee? I could do with a cup." 

"You'll have to make it yourself then," said Doyle ungraciously. 

"I intend to," said Bodie. "Come on, puss, I'll feed you too." Kasper followed him, purring. 

A cup of coffee was placed on Doyle's chest. He drank it slowly as a voice rang out from the kitchen. 

"What have you got to eat?" 

"I dunno," said Doyle. "Look in the pantry." 

"I did. It looks like Old Mother Hubbard's." 

"There should be some bread," said Doyle. "I'm not very interested in food." 

"I can tell that - you're so bloody thin. I'll just go down to the farm." 

"Bodie!" yelled Doyle, but he had already left. When Bodie came back it was with a large bag. 

"Here we are - bacon, sausages, black pudding, eggs. And I can do you a good chunk of fried bread to go with that," said Mr Bodie cheerfully. 

"I hate fried bread," Doyle complained. 

"It's good for you, puts hair on your chest." 

The smell of fried bread began to percolate. 

"Here," said Bodie, as he dumped a well-filled plate on Doyle's stomach. "Get that down you." 

Doyle looked at the plateful in horror; obviously Bodie enjoyed a keen appetite. He began to eat slowly. Not bad, he thought grudgingly as he glanced over at Bodie, who was pouring tomato ketchup over his, then mopping up with a large wedge of bread. Doyle finally pushed his plate away. 

"I couldn't eat another mouthful. Was all right, that." 

"I'll put the kettle on," said Bodie. "Where can I sleep tonight?" 

"You have a house two miles down the road." 

Unsnubbed, Bodie looked about. "I'll just shift the rubbish off that settee." 

"You will not," said Doyle. "That's where I'm sleeping. I'll never make the stairs. Use my room." He realised that short of brute force there was no way Bodie would be shifted and his leg was hurting like hell. 

They had coffee peacefully and later Bodie insisted on seeing him comfortably settled before he went upstairs. Doyle lay listening to the clock ticking. Was it always that loud? 

At 3 a.m. Doyle decided he couldn't stand it any longer and got up to look for his painkillers. He made it to his feet successfully, then fell over the coal-scuttle and a pile of books. The resulting crash brought Bodie downstairs. 

"Rather early to do your aerobics, isn't it?" he inquired. 

"Shut up," said Doyle, struggling to his feet. He swayed and almost fell again. Bodie swore and eased him back onto the couch. 

"What were you after, the bathroom?" 

"No, my pills. Leg's griping a little. I thought they were down here." 

"All right, tell me where they're likely to be." 

Doyle described their possible location and after a brief search Bodie was back with the pills and a glass of water. 

"Sorry I woke you," said Doyle. "Should be all right now - they work fast." 

"You could have called me," said Bodie. "Why didn't you tell me about your leg? I'd never have taken you on that run if I'd known." 

"Stupid, I guess," said Doyle vaguely. "Kept up all right, didn't I?" 

"You did, went very well too," said Bodie. 

"Good." Doyle grinned at him woozily as the pill took effect. "Think I'll sleep now." He closed his eyes. 

Bodie tucked the rug back round him and stayed until he was sure Doyle was asleep before returning to his room. 

 

Doyle's leg had stiffened completely by the next day. The doctor looked at it critically. 

"If that doesn't improve in a day or two we better think about getting you into the cottage hospital for them to take a look at it." 

"We will not," said Doyle. "It's been mucked about with enough." 

"I can stay on," said Bodie. "See he doesn't do any dancing on it." 

"Well," said the doctor, "we will see how it is tomorrow. See he keeps off it as much as possible." 

After a hair-raising trip to the bathroom Doyle returned to the sofa, washed and breakfasted, while Bodie cleared up in the kitchen and collected the post before settling himself with a book while Doyle looked through his mail. 

"Moonshine Film Company," said Doyle. "Tickets for the premiere. I'm not going. Couldn't bear seeing what they've done to my book. Don't believe in all that rubbish anyway." 

"If you're not careful," said Bodie, "you'll end up our local celebrity - to be pointed out to tourists in awe." 

"Ha ha," said Doyle. "Haven't you got one then?" 

"Not since Amos Hartly was hanged in 1654, no," said Bodie. "And that was for carnal knowledge of a chicken." 

Doyle looked at him suspiciously. "I'm not planning to emulate him," he remarked. "You'll have to find someone else. You do have some stock characters, mind: vague vicar; blacksmith under the spreading chestnut tree; Mrs Bleavins, the local siren; Irish doctor with a fondness for port. I haven't worked out who the local squire bespoiling all the innocent village maidens is yet." 

"Oh, that's me," said Bodie brightly, looking up from his book, his face bland. 

Doyle stared at him. Wide, candid eyes gazed back at him. "I see," he said. "I meant to ask you, what do you do for entertainment here, apart from the bloody hunting?" 

Bodie sat back and considered. "Old Tyme Dancing, pigeons - the vicar has some beauties - you can learn raffia work and that sort of thing at the Village Institute. They have lectures once a month: 'My holiday in the Isle of Wight in the Spring of 1910', that sort of thing." 

"Sounds fascinating," said Doyle. "So apart from the beer and fornication, that's it?" 

"Just about," said Bodie. "Better warn you, fornication's a bit limited. Most of the likely ladies already have someone's boots under the bed. You could try growing the largest marrow. That's very popular." 

Doyle shrugged. "Think I'd rather do raffia work." 

"Lunch," said Bodie. "I'm hungry. I'd better go and get something from my freezer. You'll be all right?" 

"Yes, just pass me a pad, will you? I've got an idea," Doyle replied. 

He scribbled away as Bodie set about preparing their lunch. It's a relief he doesn't natter all the time, Doyle thought, even if he hasn't a brain in his head. 

The afternoon passed quietly; Bodie went to exercise his horse, then made dinner, after which they discussed and argued on various matters before listening to a whodunnit on the radio which Doyle, to his gratification, solved first. He felt pleasantly tired, settling back on his couch after a wash taken under Bodie's vigilant eye. 

He only woke once, hearing Bodie moving about, then fell asleep again until eight-thirty, woken by the smell of coffee percolating. 

"How's the leg?" Bodie asked, bringing him a cup over. 

"A lot better. It didn't wake me up aching at all. First night without a pill." 

"Good." 

There was a knock on the door and Bodie went to answer it. Doyle heard him greeting Mrs Bleavins and Ashley, both resplendent in their Sunday best: Ashley looked scrubbed and uncomfortable. 

"Just dropping off a pie, Mr Doyle," she said. "How's the leg? I remember my gran was a martyr to hers. Ashley, don't pick up that cat! You'll get hairs all over your best suit. Drat the boy! Come on now, we'll be late for the service. Ashley will deliver the cream later." 

Ashley gave them a friendly grin and followed his mother out. 

"You're not trotting along with them, Bodie, taking your place in the family pew and all that?" asked Doyle. 

"No, I went to the seven o'clock at St. Joe's over at Heathdene. Now are you ready for some breakfast?" 

"One of those, are you?" said Doyle. 

"Yes, I am." 

"Odd name for a boy, Ashley. Is it a family name?" 

"No," said Bodie, busy slicing bread. "She fell in love with Leslie Howard in 'Gone with the Wind' and hoped Ashley would turn out like him." 

"Disappointing for her then," said Doyle. "I'd noticed he looks the image of you." 

"Doesn't he now," said Bodie. "It's a face you'll see a lot of in these parts. Great little brat, isn't he?" 

Doyle shrugged. "Never had much to do with kids," he said. 

 

Ashley, now in his grubby jodhpurs, appeared after lunch with a pint of cream, then stayed talking to Bodie about the latest Pony Club Meet. Doyle watched them together. Yes, it's his kid all right, he thought, and he can't be bothered to acknowledge the poor little bugger. Oh damn. He realised Bodie had turned and was looking at him. 

"You all right, Ray?" 

"Yes, just a twinge. Seeing Ashley has brought the cream, he might as well have some pie too, and ice-cream if you've left any." He couldn't admit that seeing them together reminded him too much of his own lost son; that made him angrier with Bodie. It was time he started edging Bodie out of his life; he was making himself far too much at home! 

Ashley settled with a plateful of pie and ice-cream, then said his goodbyes and went off to choir practice. They were sitting in front of the fire when Doyle remarked: "I can manage on my own now, Bodie. Thank you for coming over." 

"It was my fault you got hurt," said Bodie. "All right if I stay the night? Then I can take Piper out early. He needs a good workout." 

Doyle nodded. "I'd better start on some work myself. I have an idea, but I'll need to do some research before I start making definite plans for a book." 

"Enjoy writing, do you?" asked Bodie. 

"I enjoy the research, finding out the facts, then the first draft. After that it's just a long slog. As for the proofreading, that's a right pain in the arse." 

"I thought you had people to do that for you at the publishers," said Bodie. 

"I don't trust 'em. You should see what they let through. When I write something, it's got to be perfect. I'd like to find something local to write about. Anything dramatic happen in the crime line round here?" 

Bodie paused a moment before replying. "There have been a few cases of rick burning, amateur highway robbery, nothing for you." 

Doyle noted the dismissive tone. "What about him, William on the wall there?" he said, pointing. "Didn't he do anything exciting? And before you ask I haven't made up my mind about letting you have him back!" 

"Ah, found out his name, have you?" said Bodie. "All the eldest sons are called William. No, he led a very secluded life down here." 

"Oh," said Doyle. "Buried in your family crypt, is he?" 

There was a silence. 

"I hope so," said Bodie. "There are odd tales about him. The usual rubbish. I'd better get these dishes done." 

Doyle looked after him. Think I'll poke around a bit, see what I can find, he thought. 

 

The next morning Bodie packed his few things while Doyle ate his breakfast. 

"That's the lot then. I've cut some wood for the range, the doctor will look in later today. Anything else you'd like done?" 

"No. Thanks for your help," said Doyle. 

The telephone rang and he went over to answer it. "Oh, it's you, Halliwell. Can't we discuss it on the phone? Well, it will have to be next week, I've gone and crocked up my leg, can't move at all at the moment. No, I wouldn't be able to drive the car - doctor's orders." 

Bodie grinned as Doyle went on lying valiantly, but Doyle finally gave in and agreed, under duress, to go up to London the following weekend. 

"Damn, damn, damn," said Doyle as he put the telephone receiver down. "Though maybe with a bit of luck there'll be a rail strike or something. I hate going up to London." 

Bodie grinned. "Ray, you're a sod. Well, I'm off. See you around." 

Doyle settled back at his table and began to make notes. 

oOo 

A week later Mr Halliwell looked across his desk and sighed. "You will not consider attending the literary luncheon at Foyle's?" 

"I will not," said Doyle. "I've got better things to do with my time than sit listening to a bunch of bloody egotists telling me how good their last book was." 

"Of course," said Mr Halliwell. "Now if I proposed an appearance by you on one of the better television book programmes - would that be more acceptable?" 

"It would not," said Doyle. "Not that," he added amiably, "I wouldn't like to shred that bloody poet..." 

"Ahem," said Mr Halliwell. "We'll leave the question of the luncheon for the moment then." He ignored Doyle's glare. "This is the cover the Art Department are proposing for the book." 

Doyle looked at it and emitted a four-lettered word. 

"I was afraid you would say that," said Mr Halliwell. "I imagine you'd like less naked flesh and more attention to the text?" 

"Definitely," said Doyle. "And tell 'em from me I've seen better art on lavatory walls!" 

"Leg's bad again, is it?" asked Mr Halliwell, noticing Doyle shifting in his chair. 

"It's a shit, thank you. Anything else?" 

"Well, here's the blurb for the inside; nothing offensive in that. They would like a short biographical piece - if you are agreeable?" 

"Forget it," said Doyle. 

"There is a rumour going about that you're a vicar's daughter writing under a pen name," remarked Mr Halliwell. 

"The Brontës ride again, eh?" said Doyle. "Good. Means I might sell more copies." 

"Here's a cheque from the American sales. They're improving - despite your visit," said Mr Halliwell. He disliked being rung in the early hours of the morning to soothe the ruffled feelings of irate American publishers. 

In passing the cheque to Doyle he dislodged a pile of artwork. Doyle found himself confronted with a passionate clinch which almost seared the eyeballs. 

"What the hell's that for?" he asked. "New edition of the Kama Sutra?" 

"No. 'Tropical Nights'. Maisie Dalrymple's latest. It almost lives up to the cover, too. She's a wonderful businesswoman - no trouble with her publicity." 

"Her writing gives me heartburn," said Doyle. "I've met her, haven't I?" 

"Her books keep the firm afloat," said Mr Halliwell, "and enable them to publish the less well-selling authors like yourself." 

"My problem is that I appeal to the thinking reader," said Doyle. "And there's too damn few of 'em! I remember her now - a big woman. She threw a glass of champagne over me at that damned literary lunch you conned me into going to. Cheap stuff it was too. She made sure there was a photographer nearby, I noticed!" 

"It was free," said Mr Halliwell. "And it was entirely your own fault, asking her where she parked her truck and making an observation about her male companion." 

"I'd forgotten him." Doyle grinned reminiscently. 

"Well unless you wish to meet Maisie again we'd better terminate this meeting. I'm expecting her very shortly," said Mr Halliwell. 

Doyle agreed he didn't and left the office; he still had several hours to wait for his train and debated going for a meal. Then he heard his name being called and turned. 

"Hello, Bodie! What brought you out of the stables?" 

"International, of course," said Bodie, surprised. "I have tickets for two good seats, Ashley's too young, Amy's still got her leg up. Glad I met you." 

"Bodie, I'm not going to any horse show, especially with you! Can't stand 'em." 

Bodie's face fell: he looked like a child being told there was no Santa Claus. Doyle, against his better judgement, melted. 

"All right then, but if I miss my train..." he threatened. 

Bodie beamed with pleasure. 

Several hours later Doyle had to admit he was enjoying himself, listening to his companion's libellous comments on the riders, 'Godzilla with spurs' being his comment on one. Doyle had disagreed on the grounds Godzilla had more charm. 

Never remember being this young myself, he thought wryly, watching Bodie. 

"You'll be sick if you eat any more peanuts," he found himself saying indulgently. Then, "Bloody hell, I've missed my train!" 

Bodie was unconcerned. "You can stay at our hotel. They'll fit you in. Then I can take you round in the morning, introduce you to people and their horses." 

"That will be nice," said Doyle shortly. 

 

"That's the end," said Bodie sadly. "Come on, the hotel isn't far." 

Doyle was relieved to find the small hotel seemed clean and respectable even if it was crammed to the gunnels with horsy types, all of whom hailed Bodie with enthusiasm. With the aid of some positively indecent charm from Bodie they had a camp-bed moved into his room, every other room being taken. 

"You can have mine with your bad leg," said Bodie. "Now let's go and have a couple of drinks with the lads." 

"It's after hours," said Doyle. 

"Is it? Forget it - I will," said Bodie. 

'The lads' were congregated in the small lounge with a tiny bar; from the crates also stacked there Doyle guessed extra supplies had been brought in. The smell of the stables hung over all. 

"This place caters for our sort," yelled Bodie over the din. "Mike!" 

A large Irish thug bounded over. "Saw you in the crowd, Bodie. What do you think of Joe's new horse?" He looked at Doyle curiously. "How's Amy?" 

"Still got her leg up," said Bodie. They moved away, talking horses. 

Doyle got himself a cider and went into a corner, composing a short article on 'Does too much contact with a saddle damage the brain?' before he was accosted. 

"Good heavens, it's Doyle, isn't it?" 

He was about to make his usual response of, 'Well, yes, it was when I got up this morning,' when he recognised a police colleague - mounted, of course. "Yes, sir." 

"Thought you didn't care for horses?" 

"I don't. Came with Bodie there - he had a ticket going spare. Then I missed my train." 

Bodie came over to them with a couple of whiskies. "Here, Doyle. 'Lo, Geoff, you having anything?" 

"Nothing now, thank you. Have to leave shortly. Doyle tells me he came with you." 

"Yes, he went out with the Hunt last month. He lives in my village now." 

"Good. Always wondered where you'd gone, Doyle. You could have stayed on, you know. Clerical job, of course." 

"I would have been climbing the walls in six months," said Doyle. "I do all right with my books and pension. Excuse me, I have to find the bog." 

"That way," said Bodie, pointing. He watched Doyle limp away. "Leg's bothering him," he remarked. 

"Yes. It's a pity - he was a good officer. Had a commendation for the action he was injured in. Bad marriage too; he was devoted to their child. When he was killed there was nothing to keep them together. Hope life is better for him now. Suppose I'd better be off. See you at Ballsbridge then, Bodie?" 

"Probably," he said. "Good night." 

 

Doyle looked at himself in the small mirror. Might as well take yourself off to bed, you'll only ruin everyone else's night if you stay down here growling, he told himself. 

Bodie was leaning on the small bar looking tired when he went back into the lounge. 

"Bodie, I'm packing it in now. I'm going to take a pill, the leg's giving me gyp. I should be asleep when you come up." He looked about him; the party seemed to be warming up. "If you ever do, that is." 

Bodie, coming up later, found Doyle fast asleep and made his unsteady way to the bathroom.

 

When Doyle awoke, the sun was streaming in, and Bodie was holding onto the bed- post for support. 

"Bathroom's free," he intoned with an effort. 

"You look bloody awful," said Doyle. 

"Don't raise your voice," whispered Bodie. "I feel it - I didn't drink much either, just a couple of jars with the team. They're good lads. Surprised the singing didn't wake you - or the coffee table collapsing." 

"Glad I missed it," said Doyle. "Tell me, how do you fancy going to a literary luncheon?" 

Bodie nodded brightly, then winced. 

Get my own back, thought Doyle, his resolve hardening after he had to step over sleeping bodies apparently kipping down in the lounge on his way to breakfast. 

Several gentlemen of rumpled military aspect were there, sporting what the books call 'a delightful brogue'. Doyle viewed them all with instant suspicion. 

They were well into their breakfast, Bodie having revived at the sight of a plate of food, when an older, uniformed man joined them with a muttered apology to Doyle. 

"Bodie, I'm wondering if you could work out with the horses this morning. Several of the lads... Well, they're not up to it at the moment and Himself will not be pleased when he finds out. And he'll enjoy a chat with you." 

"Oh, yes," said Bodie, looking at him. "Might as well. I need the exercise and Doyle will enjoy seeing the horses. We'll be over." 

Doyle opened his mouth to say he wouldn't be, then relented. Thinks he's giving me a treat, he thought. It won't hurt to miss my next train. 

 

It turned out to be 'a grand morning', as everyone kept saying. The commandant in charge, with a limp as bad as Doyle's, was a fan of his books, so they spent a peaceful morning in the sun chatting while Doyle nursed a large glass of good Irish whiskey, admiring the well turned-out horses. 

"My brother in the Garda reads your books too," Commandant O'Hare was saying. "I'm looking forward to having more time to read when I retire at the end of the year." 

"It doesn't work that way," said Doyle. "You always need more time. Bodie's enjoying himself." 

"Yes, it's good to see him fit again, we didn't think he'd make it this last time." 

"He told me he served in the Middle East - with the U.N.?" said Doyle. 

"Yes, that's right. With Bodie having dual nationality it's difficult; he can't serve up on the Border. You'll understand about that?" 

"Yes," said Doyle, going back to his drink. 

After an excellent lunch, courtesy of the Irish Army, they caught the train home, British Rail doing its best as usual to make the journey memorable in terms of discomfort. 

"You would think," said Bodie, "that after making us change three times, they would have something better to offer at the buffet than warm Pepsi." 

"I thought you were signing the pledge this morning," said Doyle. 

"Only in the first frightful moments. You've gone quiet. Leg bothering you?" 

"No," said Doyle shortly. "Just having a think. Read your paper." 

"'Found between two barmaids'," read Bodie. "Lucky man, it never happens to me." 

"Shut up," said Doyle. "According to village gossip it happens to you all the time! Wish you'd get a better class of paper." 

"It's got you in it," said Bodie. 

"Hell, where?" said Doyle, leaning over. 

"Right here, after the piece about Lady Penelope Thwaite's rubber underwear. 'Well-known reclusive writer' - doesn't sound quite right that - 'may be at one of Foyle's celebrated literary luncheons.' It says you've been seen with a well-known Society lady." 

"Doesn't say who, does it?" asked Doyle with mild interest. "Bloody Halliwell. What are you doing next Tuesday?" he added. 

Bodie looked vague. "Seeing a man about a horse, I think." 

"No, you're not. Get your suit pressed and come up to the Dorchester with me: free food and booze, lousy company." 

"I do like a party," said Bodie cheerfully. Doyle glared out of the train window. 

When he got home Doyle rang Mr Halliwell to express his displeasure, then announced that he would be going to the luncheon, and that he would be bringing a chum. 

"Not another writer, I hope?" said Mr Halliwell. "The afternoon will be difficult enough as it is." 

"No, my neighbour," said Doyle. "I doubt if he can sign his name." 

 

He duly collected Bodie on the big day, surprised to see how spruce he could look. 

"My best suit still smells of horse," said Bodie. "Wow, a Merc. Can we go through the village so they can see it?" 

"Shut up, Bodie. I know Amy drives one." 

"Yes, she won it in a raffle," said Bodie. "You nearly went in the hedge then." 

"Just tell me the quickest way to the motorway," said Doyle. 

 

Doyle gave a sigh of relief as they drove up to the Dorchester. He always hated driving in London. After instructing the garage man in the correct care of his car they made their way into the hotel. 

"This looks like it," said Doyle, peering into a room; it was full of people and tobacco smoke. 

"Hello, Halliwell," said Doyle. "Where's the bar?" 

"Over there, Mr Doyle, behind all those backs. I've put Mr Bodie beside you at the table. Does he have any special interests?" 

"Yes," said Doyle, "but I don't think you'll cater for them here." 

"He seems to have found someone to talk to already," said Mr Halliwell. 

"He would, he's very undiscriminating," said Doyle. "Now, what did you want to get me here for?" 

"American publisher I want you to meet. Now that Mr Danzinger refuses to have anything more to do with your books I want you to meet Mr Sheridan. He's a very good sort and has expressed an interest. Could you - for once - try and be pleasant?" 

Doyle sniffed. He found, however, that he and Mr Sheridan had a shared interest in something other than books and the interview closed on a much more amicable note than Mr Halliwell had hoped for, or expected. 

Duty done, Doyle made his way to a quiet corner with a drink and attempted to shut out the party. He noticed to his annoyance that Bodie seemed to be having a good time; he was just working on a plot line when a voice impinged on his thoughts. He looked up to find Bodie standing there, Maisie Dalrymple on his arm. 

"Hello, Doyle," she barked. "Your charming friend tells me you've been hiding yourself away in the country." 

"He's got a big mouth," said Doyle. 

"You are throwing yourself away on him you know, darling," she said, patting Bodie's arm. "Ah, there's my publisher, I must fly." 

"Bitch," said Doyle. "All she needs is a broom." 

"I think she's a charming lady," said Bodie. "My sister used to read her books. She thinks I'm your boyfriend," he went on. 

Doyle choked on his drink. "I trust you disabused her of that idea," he said. 

"Actually," drawled Bodie, "I was going to suggest you announce our engagement. I've been propositioned twice already this afternoon." He batted his eyelashes at Doyle. 

"Very funny," growled Doyle. "Serve you right if I took you up on that." 

"No, it wouldn't," said Bodie. "I'd accept right away. Fancied you from the moment we met. It's like we were made for each other." 

"Idiot," said Doyle. "Come on, lunch is ready. I want to get away as soon as we can after it." 

"I'm enjoying myself," said Bodie, aggrieved. 

Doyle glared at him. 

The meal would have been acceptable, Doyle admitted, if he hadn't had to listen to that stupid sod going on about his pet theory (Professor Lowe wrote books and had opinions with which Doyle disagreed profoundly). Bodie, of course, was talking cricket with animation with his neighbour. 

"Well then," said Professor Lowe, "what do you think of the proposition?" 

"I think," said Doyle, "it's a load of..." 

At that moment Mr Halliwell rapped smartly on the table. "Ladies and gentlemen, our host would now like to say a few words." 

Thankfully it was much more than a few words and Professor Lowe had to leave early, thereby depriving the newspapers from reporting 'ugly scenes at Dorchester luncheon'. 

They were well on their way home when Doyle realised his leg was cramping badly. "You had much to drink, Bodie?" 

"No, why?" 

"Leg's giving me gyp. Take over the driving, will you? Have you got a licence?" 

"Of course," said Bodie. "I'm qualified to drive a tank." 

"Well just remember this isn't one. You pay for any damage." 

Once satisfied his car was in safe hands Doyle sat back and relaxed, until he said: "You can go faster than this you know, Bodie." 

"Not according to the last sign we passed - and you an ex-cop." 

There was a snort and a mumble as Doyle settling back again. 

"Almost home," said Bodie, some time later. "Like to drop in my place for a drink? We'll pass there first." 

"All right, I need to stretch this leg. They should put more lights on this bloody road." 

Doyle grunted with approval as they entered Bodie's house. "Glad you've got the heating on, thought you might be the Spartan kind." 

"No, I feel the cold after the Middle East - I had it put in with the money from selling the other lodge to you. I still can't shift the manor, mouldy old ruin." 

Doyle wandered about the small room, inspecting the bookcases. "I'm going to have to borrow some of your books off you. I thought all you'd have would be bound copies of Horse and Hound - and Wisden, of course. This your family on the mantlepiece?" 

Bodie came in with a tray and two steaming mugs of coffee. "Yes, had us all scrubbed up one Christmas and took that. I'm the one with an arm in a sling. Here's your coffee." 

Doyle sipped appreciatively. "Hum, I like the additives, Bodie, but I took a pill in the car, I won't be able to drive home. 'Fraid you've got an overnight guest." 

"Ray, are you all right?" Bodie was aghast. 

"Sure, just have a good sleep." Doyle settled down and dozed right off. 

Bodie, horrified, rang Dr Ryan who, after ascertaining just how much whisky had been added to the coffee, assured Bodie that all Doyle was likely to do was sleep the clock round. Bodie looked at him lying there peacefully, sighed and set about putting him to bed. 

 

To his surprise Doyle woke in bed, in his briefs, in a strange room. Remembering where he was he got up and inspected the bookcase, which was overflowing like all the others in the house. Some children's books on the lowest shelf caught his eye and he pulled one out; it was battered but the illustrations had charm. Turning to the flyleaf, he saw the carefully written inscription: 'William Bodie, his book, Killala, Galway'. Smiling, he put it back, then glanced at the watercolour over the bookcase: a square Georgian house in a very romantic landscape. Killala? he wondered. It was signed W.B. If it's Bodie's he draws better than me, he thought, as the smell of bacon drifted up into the room. 

"Breakfast is ready, Ray." 

"I'll be down," called Doyle. After a quick wash, he went down. 

"Heard you moving about," said Bodie, passing him a well-filled plate. "How's the leg?" 

"Much better. Thanks for putting me to bed. That looks good, I'm feeling hungry." 

Bodie watched with approval as Doyle cleared his plate. 

"The painting over the bookcase in my room - is that Killala?" Doyle asked. 

"Always the policeman. Yes, it is. A rich American film producer lives there now. He's put in sunken baths, the lot, they say." 

"Your family don't own it any more then?" Doyle asked. 

"No, we couldn't keep it up when we did - it was always full of bicycles, wet dogs, with rain coming through the roof. It was a relief to Pa when he inherited the English property with a small amount of money - enough to transport us all to England and - he hoped - fame and fortune. None of us wanted to go except Agnes. She wanted to marry a duke. Strange girl. Mother kept going back to Ireland, she never settled here really. More coffee?" 

 

Well into the afternoon, reading by the fire with Frobisher on his lap, Doyle realised it was time he went home. As Bodie needed a lift to the farm and Doyle wanted to pick up some eggs, they drove there. As he went into the farm shop Doyle noticed Ashley sponging down a very depressed-looking Bodger. 

"Got to look his best for the show," said Ashley. 

Doyle considered Bodger didn't have a 'best'. He collected his eggs and returned home to get down to some work or research which might, he hoped, lead to an idea for his next book. He noticed from the local paper that a celebrity was coming to open the village fête. The name given surprised him; he hadn't heard the lady was in the country. 

The night before the show Doyle had a telephone call from the vicar. 

"Mr Doyle, I just wanted to ring and thank you for so gallantly stepping into the breach. It's very gratifying when newcomers to the village take an interest in our little affairs. We will see you at ten o'clock tomorrow then, at the vicarage?" 

Bemused, Doyle said, yes, they would, wondering what was going on. 

He arrived at the vicarage, was given a stiff drink and informed that he had apparently volunteered to open the fête in the unfortunate absence of Miss Parton. 

Doyle said he hoped no one would be disappointed at his substitution and was eventually introduced to the crowd as 'our well-known local author', which he thought was over the top. He opened the proceedings with aplomb, cheered by the thought that a copy of the local paper plus smudgy photos might persuade Mr Halliwell that he had done his bit in the way of publicity for the year. Discovering that Bodie had kindly volunteered his name as opener, he set out to find and kill him. 

He ran Bodie to earth at the Pony Club stand, where he was holding down a very fractious Bodger, mane plaited and groomed to within an inch of his life. 

"Ashley!" Bodie was yelling. "Hurry up!" 

A very flurried Ashley appeared. "I can't get my breeches right," he moaned. 

"Doyle, would you fix him? I can't let go of Bodger - he hates shows." 

Doyle spared Bodger a look of sympathy and considered the problem. Ashley was clutching an over-large pair of breeches that reached his armpits. 

"I'm growing into them," he said gloomily. 

Doyle hoisted him off his feet in his efforts, but eventually he was put to rights, tossed up onto Bodger and went into his class. Bodie sighed with relief. 

"Jess is working in the tea tent. Mrs Dixon scalded her leg," he remarked. "You did that opening very well, by the way." 

"I owe you for that," said Doyle menacingly. 

"Needed a celebrity, didn't we?" said Bodie. "Only right I should volunteer you. Come on, I'll introduce you to Amy. She's here today - finally got her leg down." 

"Is that the one you're keeping company with?" asked Doyle. "I hear your names linked all over the village." 

Bodie assumed a wistful expression. "It's a sad story really," he began. "Childhood sweethearts, roaming the fields together, hand in hand, gathering primroses, little knowing what the future would bring..." 

"I think I'm going to be sick," announced Doyle. 

"Then," continued Bodie, undeterred, "one day I realised my little Daisy - I called her Daisy - had grown into a beautiful young woman. Overcome, I proposed." 

"What?" asked Doyle. 

Bodie ignored him. "But her stony-hearted father refused his consent. Broken-hearted I went off into the desert to forget..." 

"I shouldn't try to sell it to Mills & Boon," said Doyle. "Much too sickly for them. So why doesn't he like you - because you're immoral, penniless or papist?" 

"I shot one of his homing pigeons," said Bodie. "Mama was going through one of her Lady of the Manor phases and sent Pa out to get two dozen grouse; he put the money on a very slow horse at Wincanton. So I went out to bag some wood pigeons - Mama was going to disguise them. I hit one of the vicar's homers instead. It wouldn't have been so bad if Cook hadn't served it up to him with the ring still on its leg." 

"Bodie! That's awful - the poor little sod," said Doyle. 

"Then," Bodie went on, "we thought of eloping but, well, things were never right: the hunting season, my army service, the Girl Guide meetings. Ah, there she is now..." 

Doyle had been expecting a younger version of Maud, the hard-bitten joint Master of the drag hounds, but Miss Amy Chaffinch had a gentle, dreamy look, as though she had stepped straight from the pages of a novel by Miss C.M. Yonge. She bent a soft eye on Doyle, who was impressed. Bodie was showing more taste than he expected. 

"Ray, this is Miss Amy Chaffinch. Amy, Ray Doyle, our new neighbour." 

"William has told me so much about you," said Amy, smiling at Doyle. 

"Has he?" he replied warily. 

"Well, I'll leave you two to talk about your bad legs," said Bodie. "I better go and check on Ashley." 

Amy gazed after him. 

"William is such a shit," she remarked. "Don't believe a word the lying bastard tells you." 

"Er, no," said Doyle. "I hope your leg is better now?" 

"Still stiff, but at least I'm up on it again. Missed half the season. Crock yours up hunting too?" 

"No," said Doyle, "my last job. Would you care for a drink?" 

"I'd love one. The tent's that way. William will be stuck with that brat Ashley for hours. I have him in my Sunday School class. He should have been drowned at birth." 

Several drinks later Doyle was revising his first impression of Amy Chaffinch; he wasn't used to well-bred girls who laid a confiding hand on your knee, while looking like the Blessed Damozel and sinking double whiskies with ease and no apparent effect. 

Bodie rejoined them. "He took two seconds," he remarked. "He would have had a first, but he was disqualified for calling Elsie Best a silly moo when she didn't remount fast enough. Not buying her drinks are you, Doyle? She'll cost you a fortune." 

"Mr Doyle is a gentleman," said Amy. "It makes a refreshing change from sods like you. Come on, Willie, get your wallet out. It's your round." 

"All right. What are you having, Ray?" 

"Nothing now. Are you sure you two were planning to elope?" 

"Lying bastard," said Amy, landing Bodie a hard thump between the shoulder blades. "What have you been telling this poor man? Ray, dear," she tucked an arm around him, "I wouldn't cross the street with Willie, let alone marry him! Now are you coming to the dance tonight?" 

"I don't dance," said Doyle firmly. 

"You don't have to," said Amy briskly. "Just sit and meet everyone." 

"Amy," said Bodie, "he doesn't want to meet people, let him alone." 

"Look out - father," said Amy. Slipping her glass into Doyle's hand, she and Bodie melted into the crowd. 

"Ah, Mr Doyle," said the vicar. "I've been looking for you. Do come and meet some of your neighbours. I had expected my daughter to be here to take you round - no doubt she is engaged in some good work somewhere." 

"No doubt," said Doyle. 

An hour later he found himself in the tea tent, consuming a large salad batch and warding off an attempt to sell him a dozen Aylesbury ducklings (live); he had also agreed to look in on the dance. 

The dance was held in the great barn at Highgreen Farm, with a buffet and bar laid on; as he arrived he noticed the extra lighting around the farmyard. Ashley hurried past him with a great tray of sandwiches, followed by his mother with an equally large tray of sliced ham. 

"Glad you could come, Mr Doyle," she called. "William is at the bar." 

Where else? thought Doyle. When he found him, Bodie was resplendent in his best Hunt jacket, complete with ruffled stock. 

"Oh, very pretty," Doyle remarked. "On loan from Moss Bros, are you?" 

"I have to be back in the window at twelve," said Bodie sadly. "Come on, I'll introduce you around." 

Bodie, Doyle noticed with amusement, was playing the village squire to the life. When Amy arrived, dressed to the nines, Doyle realised he was beginning to dislike her. Maybe it was the way she looked at Bodie as though he was prime steak - when she wasn't hitting him. Her behaviour was getting to him. Not that it's my business, Doyle reminded himself. Bodie's certainly old enough to look after himself - if he wants to. 

After a chat with various people, Doyle made his way to the buffet to find Ashley at his elbow. "Mother says if you'd like to come over to the kitchen you can have supper with us. It's better than this," he added candidly. 

Deciding Ashley could well have a point, Doyle made his way across to the farm kitchen to find Jess dishing up a large cheese and onion pie to a few friends. Bodie was also there, sitting by the fire, looking tired. 

"There you are, Mr Doyle," said Jess, setting a plate in front of him. "I didn't think you'd want to stay too long, and you'll enjoy a meal here more than in the crush." 

She went across to Bodie with a plate of food. Doyle watched her talk to him quietly for a moment. Bodie grinned at her and then started to eat. 

Curiouser and curiouser, thought Doyle, and where is the awful Amy? 

"Are you going to write a book about the village?" 

Doyle started and found his table companion, whom he recognised as Fred Stebbins, gazing at him, fork in hand. 

"Not unless anything of a criminal nature happened here," said Doyle, "and it's an interesting crime. I'm not into writing guidebooks yet," he added moodily. 

Fred thought a moment. "William Harrison," he said. "We never did find out what happened to him." 

"When did this happen?" 

"Oh, years ago," said Fred. "They said he'd been murdered, hanged three people for it, then he turns up, large as life. The Campden Wonder, they called it. William can show you where they were hanged: it's a pleasant ride up to Broadway Hill in the summer." He turned back to his pie. 

Jessie looked over. "Any more, Mr Doyle?" 

He passed his plate over. 

Bodie seemed to have left; gone back to the frolic, he supposed. He must ask him about the Campden Wonder. 

When he arrived home Doyle quickly noted down the facts - if they were that - which Fred had mentioned, then glanced through his stock of books without finding anything to help his researches. 

Waking early the next day, he had a good breakfast before making a list of things to do. There was a knock on his open kitchen door. 

Doyle glanced up. "My God, you give a whole new meaning to the word dissipated," he remarked. "Well, come in, stop leaning on the door." 

Bodie made his way carefully to a chair, then tried to focus on Doyle, who fixed him with a glittering eye. 

"Bodie," he said, "what do you know about William Harrison and the Campden Wonder?" 

Bodie blinked. "I didn't have anything to do with it," he said with an effort. 

Doyle looked at him and sighed. "Just hold your head on a moment and I'll make some coffee. I can see you're not going to be any help until we shift that hangover." 

He made coffee and passed Bodie a large mugful. 

"Here, you better have some aspirin with that." He tossed a couple over. 

Bodie automatically swallowed them. "That will be eight this morning," he remarked, "if the first two were aspirin. I couldn't be sure, the label kept swimming about." 

"I suppose you were one of the idiots keeping me awake till 3 a.m.," said Doyle. 

"Probably," said Bodie. "I can't remember. I think Amy took me home - at least I hope it was her pulling my boots off in the early hours." 

"You drink too much," said Doyle. "Look, you'd better go upstairs and try and sleep it off. I'll put a meal on for us later - I want to have a talk with you." 

Bodie looked up the stairs. "Don't think I can make it that far." 

"Come on then, I'll get you to bed." Doyle began to help his fuddled guest up the stairs. 

"At last," said Bodie, "all my fantasies are realised." 

Doyle, steering him with difficulty into the bedroom, sighed. "Bodie, you're not capable of enacting any of 'em at the moment, so shut up." 

Bodie, collapsing onto the bed clutching his head, was inclined to agree. Doyle briskly pulled off his jacket and boots and left him to deal with the rest. After half an hour he looked in to find Bodie sound asleep. 

Going to dry you out if it's the last thing I do, he thought. No good expecting Amy to, she probably sinks more than you do. God knows why I want to waste my time. 

There was a knock on the door; it was the postman bringing another parcel of proofs to be gone through. 

"Heard about the fight, Mr Doyle - after the dance? There were two arrests. They say there was blood all over the place." 

"No," said Doyle, and the postman left. 

He glanced through the parcel and found a note from Mr Halliwell: 'This should be the last batch. Please don't decide to rewrite the whole book, will you.' Doyle grinned and tossed the package onto the sofa as the telephone rang. 

"Oh, Mr Doyle, it's Amy Chaffinch. Is William with you?" 

"Yes, he is," said Doyle, "and he's asleep." 

"Oh, that's all right. Just tell him I called, and not to worry, everything is all right. You won't forget?" 

"No," said Doyle. "Bugger," he added, as he put the phone down. 

After an hour or two he heard Bodie in the bathroom and set to making a light lunch for them both. Bodie appeared looking much brighter. 

"I took a shower," he said. "Thanks for the help." 

Doyle nodded. "There was a phone call for you. Amy. She said not to worry, everything is all right." 

"About what?" asked Bodie in surprise. 

"No idea. She seemed to think you'd know." 

"Well I don't," said Bodie. "Probably better that way." 

"I'm making lunch. Do you feel like eating now?" 

"Yes. I'm surprised you haven't thrown me out." 

"Planning to reform you, aren't I?" said Doyle. 

"Wasting your time," said Bodie. "I enjoy being a social menace." 

"That's all right, I go in for hopeless causes - I used to be a Jacobite." 

"I didn't realise you could cook," said Bodie as they settled to eat. 

"I had to learn, being on my own. I wasn't going to keep spending money in lousy restaurants," said Doyle. "I'm thinking of looking into the Campden Wonder. What can you tell me about it?" 

Bodie thought for a moment. "There's a book on it in one of the trunks at home - read it once. As I remember, this man disappeared and they thought he'd been murdered. They hanged three people for it - the woman was said to be a witch. Then the bloke turned up again, gave everyone a shock. He said he'd been sold into slavery - as he was in his seventies it seems unlikely." 

"You're making that up," said Doyle. "Amy warned me about you." 

"No, straight up, it's in the book. Oh, I remember... His wife hanged herself when she found she wasn't a widow! 'A snotty, covetous puritan,' they said." He grinned at Doyle. 

"Papist sot," Doyle returned amiably. "I better have a look at that book. If it's been gone into before I'm not sure I want to tackle it. Well," he looked at Bodie, "when can I get to see it?" 

"What, now?" said Bodie. "It took me all my time to find my front door this morning. Not sure I can face looking through six trunks of books in my loft." 

"Six trunks!" said Doyle. "You've been keeping them quiet. You have six trunks of books?" 

"At least," said Bodie. "I couldn't decide what to sell so I kept most of the library from the manor. Charlie took Pa's regimental history collection, Agnes took the romances - there were stacks of them - and I took the rest. No good thinking you'll find a Second Folio - I've already been through them for that." 

"We could go over and start sorting through them this afternoon," said Doyle. 

Bodie looked at him in horror. "Are you always this energetic? I was planning on having a long rest." 

"Nonsense," said Doyle. "A little activity will do you the world of good. Besides, I need a research assistant on this one - someone who knows the area - to take me around. Fred says it's a good ride up to Broadway." 

"No," said Bodie with conviction. "I've got too much to do here." 

"Like what?" said Doyle. "Don't you want to help me add to the sum total of human knowledge, to throw light into dark corners and all that?" 

"No," said Bodie. "You'll have to do better than that." 

"Well, how about me dedicating the work to you - 'To William Bodie, Esquire, who gave up valuable drinking time to help my research'?" 

"That sounds more like it," said Bodie. "But I have to be in Dublin for ten days later this month: horse show." 

Doyle nodded. "Fair enough. I thought you'd need more persuasion than that." 

"Have an ulterior motive, don't I?" said Bodie darkly. 

 

"My God," said Doyle, pausing to cough, "you weren't having me on. I'll never be able to look through this lot up here in the loft. Can we get them down?" 

"Have to be one at a time if we do," said Bodie, "otherwise there won't be room for me to live here. This lodge is a lot smaller than yours, you know." 

"See what you mean - dusty too. All right, I'll look through everything I can reach up here. Pass me a sack up and I'll put in anything that might be of use." 

Bodie did so and left Ray to ferret happily. He eventually climbed back down very begrimed, but clutching a sackful of books. 

"Found the one you mentioned: Sir John Clark (editor), The Campden Wonder. O.U.P. 1959. That's all there is out on the subject?" 

"As far as I remember," said Bodie. "Think Pa got that in a batch with some of his army books. You know, you have to buy a basket of seventeen to get the two you want. That's where most of this stuff came from. You can have it. It's not old enough to have any resale value. What else have you got there?" 

"Just some I'd like to look through. All right if I stay?" 

"Of course. Stick everything on the couch there. It's old but you can stretch out on it. I'm going to get some beer in." 

Doyle nodded vaguely as Bodie left. 

Later that evening Bodie looked across at Doyle, curled into a corner of the couch, surrounded by books, busily making notes. Wonder how he does that, he thought. Must be double-jointed or something. I better get those leathers cleaned up. 

Doyle flexed his back and looked around. Bodie was busily saddle-soaping a piece of riding tackle. He's a good-looking fella, Doyle thought, and comfortable to be with. 

Bodie looked up and smiled and Doyle found himself smiling back. Don't think I've been this much at ease with anyone for years, he thought. What's the matter with you, Doyle, going soppy watching that promiscuous sod polishing a bit of leather? If you're not careful... 

"Ray, like a beer?" Bodie held up a can. 

"Yes, toss it over." 

Doyle opened it, as usual a moment too soon, and was mildly sprayed. He swore and licked his fingers. 

"Well then," said Bodie, "what do you want to start with?" 

Doyle consulted his list. "I better take a look at Campden - we can use my car - the church; Campden House, or what's left of it. Is that possible? It looks like one of those fox-hunting jerks lives there: a Lord Bicester." 

"No problem," said Bodie. "Jack's my brother-in-law. The only thing we have to do is to see his place when my sister is away or we won't get over the doorstep. I'll try and find out when she'll be away with her cats." 

"I'm not going to ask," said Doyle. "Just don't expect me to grovel to an MFH." 

oOo

"I have to hand it to you," said Doyle the next afternoon as he made rapid inroads into his   
chicken and chips at the Noel Arms, Chipping Campden, "you do find the best pubs - and seem to be known in most of them. There's just the manor to see now. You coming with me?" 

"Yes, Agnes is away and Jack wants me to look at his new hunter." 

It was only a short drive to imposing lodge gates which were opened for them by a strapping young cowman accompanied by an incredibly dirty little girl, who hailed Bodie joyfully. She had, Doyle noted acidly, blue eyes and dark hair and resembled his assistant. They were greeted by Lord Bicester, looking as though he'd slept in his riding-clothes. Bodie disappeared stablewards while Doyle was given a tour of the house. 

"Just mind you don't step on one of Agnes's blasted Persians. I can't stand the beasts - they look so damned superior." 

Doyle, who had been chucking a Persian kitten under the chin, started guiltily. 

"Now, this is the gallery. I think that's the fella you want a photo of - Thomas Overbury. Boring sort of chap, he wrote religious books. Ancestor of my mother. I'll ask her to write you about him. She's away at the moment." 

"You don't think he made the story up then?" asked Doyle, after he had finished taking his photographs. 

"Shouldn't think so. Don't see the point if he did. Like cats, do you?" 

"Yes," said Doyle shortly. 

"Ah, you could do me a favour. That little chap there, Agnes wants me to have him topped. He's got a crooked leg, which means he's no good for breeding. I suppose you...?" 

Doyle scooped up the kitten at once. Lord Bicester smiled. 

"Bodie said he thought you would. Now, you'd like to see the outside. I'll get those books you want from the library. Can I show you the stables?" 

Doyle decided it would not go down well if he expressed a lack of appreciation at this treat. The stables were, to his jaundiced eye, much like everyone else's, only bigger. Bodie was examining a horse while the dirty child from the lodge gate was leaning on the stable door by him, sucking a lollipop. 

"Ah, there you are, Miranda," said Lord Bicester. "You shouldn't eat between meals, you know." 

Miranda ignored him and looked at Doyle. "Would you like to see Muffler?" she inquired, a touch of condescension in her voice. 

"No," said Doyle. "I can see all the horses I want to right now." He noticed with interest that seemed to score him a point with her. 

"Wise decision," said Bodie, bent over examining a hoof. "Lousy little bugger nips. Nearly had my ear off last time - he'd love a go at yours. These hooves need picking out, Miranda. Make yourself useful and get me a hoof pick!" 

Doyle was impressed with the military-style command and the speed with which Miranda shot off, to return with a fearsome-looking implement, with which Bodie, who had now hoisted a hoof between his knees, began picking out disgusting debris from inside the hoof. 

"Feet need doing every day," he said. "And this straw stinks. You'll have thrush in here if you don't watch it. Your stableman needs shaking up." 

"It's a problem finding a good one," said Jack. "I suppose you wouldn't - ?" 

"You're right, I wouldn't," said Bodie. "There, I better take a look at Muffler too." 

"I've been doing his feet," said Miranda hurriedly. 

"Hum," said Bodie. "I'll look anyway." 

Doyle settled on a mounting-block with the large scotch and soda Jack had brought him. They could hear Bodie laying down the law with some vehemence in a nearby stable, its condition and that of its occupant obviously not meeting with his approval. 

"Bodie's good with horses," said Jack. "Pity he can't get over here more often. I could put some good jobs his way schooling horses, now he's out of the service. I thought he was interested but he seems to have gone off the idea now. He doesn't seem himself to me." He looked curiously at Doyle. 

Doyle was working out a noncommittal reply when he saw with relief that Bodie was coming over to them. 

"I've left Miranda curry-combing that beast. That should keep her occupied for the afternoon," he remarked. 

"Like to stay for dinner?" Lord Bicester inquired. "Have to warn you, Mrs Kedge still does the cooking." 

"I think not," said Bodie. "I want to show Ray Broadway Hill before it gets too dark." 

They made their farewells and left. 

"I gather Mrs Kedge wouldn't pick up any awards from Escoffier," said Doyle. 

"No, her stuff would choke a horse," said Bodie. "Can I hear purring from the back seat?" 

"It's Amos. Jack lent me a basket, he said to post it back. You knew I wouldn't be able to leave the poor little sod, didn't you? Rat! Anyway, Kasper spends all his time out courting these days. I like a cat who will stay at home. I'll see this one has a trip to the vet. Should get you done too - the place is lousy with black-haired, blue-eyed brats!" 

"Have a heart!" said Bodie indignantly. "They're not all mine, you know, Doyle. Hell, you didn't think Lady Miranda Fanshaw was mine, did you? I'd sharpen that one up if she was. You should meet her brothers - none of 'em are a patch on Ashley. Turn off here and then we can walk up the hill." 

The sun had begun to set by the time they reached the crest of the hill, reddening the sky as far as they could see. Doyle stared out over the countryside. 

"God, what a view! This is where they...?" He shivered. 

"Yes, they buried them at the foot of the gibbet. Later they were moved to the grounds of Campden House." 

"Not the churchyard?" asked Doyle. 

"No. You feeling cold?" 

"I think the place is getting to me. Let's go home," said Doyle. 

Bodie was silent as they drove back to Larton. 

"Bodie, I didn't know you'd left the army. Any particular reason?" Doyle asked. 

"I haven't left; I'm on the reserve. If the Russians decide to invade they'll send me a telegram to come running," said Bodie. "Reminds me, I'll be away for a few days - Dublin Horse Show. We have a team competing. I shouldn't be more than a week." 

"I'll go up to the county library, do some digging there," said Doyle. "I can finish the proofs off too. They'll be out of the way by the time you get back. Come and have a meal. I've got something in for once." 

Bodie accepted. 

"Forgot to tell you," he remarked, watching Doyle busily chopping vegetables: "you were on the telly last night - that review programme." 

"Oh yes?" said Doyle warily. "What did they have to say? Reviewing the book that's out in paperback, were they?" 

"I think so. I didn't see it all. Had to turn over to Hickstead to see how our team were doing." 

"And how were they doing?" asked Doyle. "Philistine!" 

"Am not," said Bodie, "I'm R.C. They were doing rotten, so I turned back to you. Showed a very tatty picture of you in your policeman's uniform." 

"That must have been a thrill for the viewers," Doyle remarked, bashing a piece of steak rather hard. "They didn't mention the book at all, I suppose?" 

"In passing, after saying you eschewed all personal publicity. They seemed to think that was sinister. And one remarked how much you were paid for the screen rights." 

"That bloody poet!" said Doyle. "Bet it was him. I can't stand the bastard! It's no one's fucking business whether I have shreddies for breakfast or next door's cat!" He banged a pan down hard. Bodie winced. 

"Your head bothering you?" Doyle asked, concerned. 

Bodie nodded and took a pill. Doyle stared at him a moment then went on cooking. 

"I'd better warn you," said Bodie as they ate, "the Fair will be here at the end of the month. Gaiety will be unconfined. They usually have local bands, that kind of thing." 

"I'll invest in earplugs," said Doyle. "Like me to exercise Piper while you're away?" 

"If you would. Amy has other fish to fry and Maud has enough to do with her string; I wouldn't trust him with anyone but you," said Bodie. 

"Ah," said Doyle, "that's the nicest thing you've said to me. I better see if Amos is settling down. What do you think of him?" 

Bodie considered the small heap of white fur. "Bit on the small side for ratting," he said. The kitten yawned, then gazed at him with wide green eyes. "Looks just like you," Bodie went on. "You make a lovely couple." 

"Idiot," said Doyle, shovelling Kit-e-kat into a dish. "I wish this stuff didn't smell so bad - it seems to be everyone's favourite, too. When are you off to Dublin?" 

"The day after tomorrow. Can I get you a ticket to the horse show? No, I thought not. I'd better get home and pack. I'll give you a ring when I get back." 

oOo 

After Bodie had left for Dublin Doyle settled down to finishing his proofs, reading, and visits to the county library and record office, pleased to note that compared with his experiences in London the staff here seemed both knowledgeable and helpful; he put it down to local atmosphere. Even his proofs did not require as many corrections as usual. He began to worry if he was falling from his normally high standards - but that didn't seem likely. 

In the evenings he ambled down to the Brewers Arms for a relaxing drink, the walk there doing that as much as anything else. 

The proofs returned, he settled to concentrate on his research. 

He received a postcard from Bodie: 'You're missing a great show! Home soon.' 

He found he was missing Bodie more than he had expected: Bodie dropping in, nagging him to go out for rides down the local lanes, talking together over meals. 

He was just putting Piper back in his stables after their daily ride late one afternoon when Jessie invited him to tea. Accepting, he wondered again why she and Bodie hadn't married. She was a great cook and a fine-looking woman - she was decent and good-hearted too. She had the best farm in the area, and Ashley - with reservations - was a great lad. They exchanged local gossip while they ate: the odd couple that had moved into Acacia Cottage; Ashley's progress at school; then moved on to the present village talking-point: the unexplained absence of Amy Chaffinch. Her father said she was in Scotland with a sick aunt, but no one could accept Amy as a Florence Nightingale figure. Doyle wondered if she could be in Dublin, then realised with horror that he had said that out loud. 

"No," said Jessie, "William's not that daft. At least, not when he's working. Besides, he had to go to hospital - a slight accident with a horse, he said. He rang me today to say he wouldn't be back till next weekend. He'll be in good time for the fair. You'll enjoy that, Mr Doyle." 

Doyle thought it unlikely. Over the next few days he watched gloomily as the village filled up with caravans and stalls were erected the length of the main street, a large marquee being set up on the green to deal with the overflow from the Brewers Arms, who had had their licence extended. The vicar informed him that a well-known television personality would be there but if he couldn't make the opening could they ...? 

Doyle said, No, they couldn't: he had an appointment in London, and hurried back to his notebooks. 

oOo 

Bodie sat staring out of the train window. He could have stayed in Ireland, he supposed, but he wanted to be home - near Ray, anyway. Left things too late, haven't you, he thought. Just as well. Ray's had enough to put up with over the years. 

oOo 

"Ah, Mr Doyle ..." The vicar was hailing him, Doyle realised with regret. "Lucky I found you. I meant to mention, we are having a meeting about the bell tower - dry rot, I'm afraid and ..." 

Doyle hurriedly handed over a five-pound note and, cutting the vicar's thanks short with an "I must speak to..." he shot into the Brewers Arms, noting with glee when he glanced back that the vicar had cornered Fred Stebbins, by repute the tightest man in the village. Mrs Bleavins was presiding over the bar. 

"Double scotch," said Doyle. "I've just had a narrow escape." 

She passed him one. 

"Big surprise, wasn't it, Mr Doyle?" she remarked, "hearing the banns being called on Sunday." 

"Whose banns?" he asked. 

"Why, Amy's of course. Good morning, William, the usual?" 

Bodie nodded carefully; he looked awful. 

Doyle stared at him as he sipped his brandy. "Started your stag night already then, Bodie?" he asked. 

Bodie glared at him. "No, she's marrying Lord Escott's son, Henry - a real wimp. She's been trying to get him up to the mark for years. Now his wife's given him the push Amy's looking forward to hunting with the Beaufort." 

"Well, that's as good a reason as I've heard for marriage," said Doyle. "I'm planning to lock myself in till all the jollification is over. Come and sit down, you look lousy." 

"I feel it. I heard you might be opening the carnival if Joan Collins can't make it." 

"I won't," said Doyle. "Let's hope the Lord will provide. Are you coming back to my place?" 

"No, I have things to do." 

Doyle nodded and returned home. By next afternoon the fête was in full swing, the booths doing a roaring trade and the music both loud and incessant. He ventured out once, to replenish his supply of canned beer, and was surprised at the number of people bussing in from what he regarded as the 'outback' to join in the fun. 

He met Bodie and Ashley, both equally sticky round the mouth and hell-bent on trying everything in sight. He stayed with them a while then returned to his papers. When by midnight the affair was still going strong, he put on his headphones to drown out the worst of it and kept on with his notes. Finally getting to bed at 3 a.m., he woke late on Sunday morning to peace. 

Can't believe it, he thought. Oh, Sunday, he realised, hearing the church bells. 

Hungry, he removed the soiled plates from the table and looked in the refrigerator, hoping some good fairy had replenished it overnight. None had. 

He considered the possibilities: the Brewers Arms for a ploughman? No, he'd been warned off the pies. Now, Bodie would be sure to have something in his freezer. He'd invite himself to dinner. 

I'm going to have to do something about Bodie, he realised. He needs a bloody keeper and it might as well be me. 

Opening the front door, he sniffed the air and saw Bodie limping along the road in his hunting-clothes, liberally mud-splattered. He had forgotten there had been a hunt this morning. 

"Hey, Bodie!" he yelled. "I was just going over to your place. I'm out of food. Is there anything in your freezer?" 

Bodie made his way over slowly and leaned on the gate. 

"I'll make you an offer," he said. "You go over and pick out anything you fancy for us with a bottle of wine. Then come back here and cook it, while I soak in your bath." 

"You're on," said Doyle. "I've just heated the water - you go ahead. Shall I bring you back a change of clothes too?" 

"Yes, do that...something loose, I've got bruises everywhere. Took a fall at Hogtrough Wood." 

He passed his keys over and Doyle drove quickly to Bodie's place, inspecting the freezer with interest. Good thing Bodie's so methodical - bet Jess gives him a hand filling this, he thought, concentrating on food: chicken pie with vegetables and ice-cream - Bodie had stacks of the stuff - and a bottle of red wine. Food sorted out, he went to find some clean clothes, smiling as he looked through the drawers. God, can tell he's army-trained, probably irons his socks: briefs, shirt, cords, trainers and socks, bathrobe. That should do it, he thought. 

He was checking through the clothes he had piled on the bed when he noticed the phial of pills on the bedside table. He glanced at them curiously: What's Bodie taking these for? Not hangovers unless they're monsters... 

Returning home he found Bodie still soaking in the bath with an impressive amount of bruising developing. Doyle looked at him. 

"I'll make us some coffee," he said. "Don't bother to shift yourself." 

"Don't worry, I won't," said Bodie. "I like being waited on." 

Doyle came back in with a large mug of coffee. "Here you ..." He stopped short, staring at Bodie. "I'm sorry," he said, looking away. 

Bodie glanced down at his scarred body. "Not a pretty sight is it?" he remarked. "I like to keep the light out now. Still, I can't grumble, everything's still there and it works. That's starting to smell good, whatever it is." 

"Chicken pie," said Doyle. "I'll be dishing it up in a moment." 

Bodie hauled himself out of the bath and dried himself, then pulled on his briefs and the bathrobe: anything more at the moment would be too uncomfortable, he judged. 

 

"That," said Doyle, wiping his mouth, "was the best meal I've had in a long time." 

"Can't fault Jessie's cooking," said Bodie, helping himself to a large portion of ice-cream. 

"Hey, leave some for me!" said Doyle. "Brandy and coffee to finish?" Bodie nodded. "Right, then just pile the dishes in the sink. I'm going to buy myself a dishwasher when the paperback royalties start coming in. I'm sick of wasting time washing dishes. Brandy's over there, in the cupboard with the glasses." 

When Doyle returned from the kitchen with the coffee Bodie was looking at the portrait of a very serious small boy. 

"My son, David," said Doyle. 

"How old was he?" Bodie asked. 

"Six. It was no one's fault, he just ran out - it was over in a moment." 

Bodie slipped an arm round his shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said. 

"Yeah, I know. Come on, coffee's getting cold. If you still feel cold you can stay here the night, you know." 

"No, I'll be fine." Bodie swayed suddenly and sat down. "Phew, went dizzy," he remarked. 

"Stick your head down then," said Doyle practically. "And stop playing the Spartan hero - it doesn't impress me. Just plain daft to go home feeling rotten and fall down the stairs or something. Stay on that sofa till you feel better and I'll tidy my papers." 

Doyle cleared the dishes and started sorting his papers, making a mental note to remember where he was putting things. Bodie had fallen asleep quite quickly. Everything filed to his satisfaction, Doyle settled with a brandy, putting on a music tape quietly. 

"I liked that," said a sleepy voice as the tape ended. 

Doyle smiled across to him. "I haven't played that in a long time. It's one of my favourites." 

He walked over to the machine to change the tape and glanced across at Bodie, who was gazing at him with what could only be described as melting affection. Doyle changed the tape then walked over, looking down; kneeling, he ruffled Bodie's short hair. 

"More than time for a talk, isn't it?" Doyle remarked. "The penny's just dropped, Bodie. Been very slow, haven't I? You're very fond of me, aren't you? Thought those jokes were a try-on. Didn't realise how serious you were underneath." 

Bodie combed his hair straight again with his fingers. "Ray, just let it go, will you?" he said. 

"Why?" asked Doyle. "Got scared now I'm taking you seriously? Can't say I'm affected the same way, but you seem to have grown on me like moss, or mould - not sure which." 

"No," said Bodie. "It isn't that, it's ..." He got up from the sofa and stumbled. "Blasted leg's seized up." 

"Not really a good time for romance, is it?" asked Ray, grinning. "All right, we can wait till you're in better shape, and then have a good talk." 

After supper he steered Bodie up to his spare room, surprised at how little fight there was in him, then went off to bed himself. 

He was up early, clashing pans in the kitchen, when he heard Bodie moving about. 

"Breakfast's nearly ready," he called. 

Bodie looked at himself in the bathroom mirror; his sight was blurring constantly now, the pain in his head almost unendurable. There wasn't any time left. He could leave Ray a letter, but there was nothing he could say. Better for Ray if he kept it light, just walked out of his life. He winced as the pain deepened, waiting until it eased again. Good, just breakfast to get through, then he must leave. He borrowed Ray's razor and shaved carefully. 

Um, not bad. Pale but presentable. Now go and have breakfast and play the mad Irish idiot for Ray one last time. 

"Sure you don't want any more toast?" Doyle asked. "Not up to your usual effort, that. What are you planning to do today?" 

"Decided to go on a diet, haven't I?" said Bodie. "Have to think of poor old Piper. Not fair to him hauling a weight like me over those banks. I must go - I want to give him a good gallop this morning." 

Doyle studied him as Bodie refilled his coffee mug. You look like the wrath of God and you haven't stopped burbling since you came down this morning. What's the matter with you, Bodie? he thought worriedly. 

"Going to have to put you in a book one day, Bodie," he remarked, sitting back. 

Bodie smiled at him. "As the hero, I hope: handsome, dashing, charming?" 

"No," said Doyle. "As a big, daft lump with nothing between his ears but bran mash. Get on with you then: I have work to do. You sure you're all right?" 

"Yes, I'm fine now," said Bodie. "It's wearing off." He smiled towards where Doyle was sitting, then turned to go out of the door. He could see the light dimly, stepped forward and almost fell over Ashley, who appeared suddenly on the step, clutching a decent-sized cheese. 

"William!" yelped Ashley, startled. 

Bodie tossed him up. "Less of the William, brat," he said. He hugged Ashley, then set him down. His sight had cleared again and he walked confidently down the path. 

Ashley put the cheese down on the table and watched Doyle searching, like a squirrel after nuts, through his filing cabinet for the green notebook which he was sure he had left here. It had moved, he thought irritably. Must have! 

"William took an awful fall yesterday," said Ashley. "He and Piper went right head over heels. Dr Ryan said it was a mercy they both weren't killed. William's guardian angel will be putting in for a transfer, he said. He stuck close to Fat Amy all the time after that. She kept going on: 'Didn't you see the fucking wire?'" Ashley's mimicry was perfect. 

Doyle bent a severe gaze on him. "Ashley! You use that word again and I'll wash your mouth out with soap and water." 

Ashley giggled. "I'd better be off," he said. "Mother says she hopes you enjoy the cheese. It's the same batch as took the prize last month at the dairy show." 

"Thank you," said Doyle absently; he was still searching. "Bye ..." 

Oh, there it is. How did it get there? He sat down and started to work but found his attention wandering back to Bodie. I've been worried about him for a while, he admitted to himself. I'd better go over and see him tomorrow. No, dammit, now. He grabbed his jacket. There was something wrong - he could feel it. 

 

Bodie looked round the room. Yes, he had left everything tidy. They would have no problem finding the documents needed to settle his small estate: his will was in the drawer, with the letter to the police. He hadn't left one for Ray. There was nothing he could say and Ray would hate the embarrassment of being mentioned in court. 

Better put a note on the door. I don't want anyone calling and finding me on the floor without being warned. 

He carefully printed a card and pinned it to the back door. He had taken his cat back to the farm, asking Jess to mind him for a few days. Ashley would inherit his property and he had gone through his papers, burning anything he considered personal, which included the clipping of Ray opening the fête; he had smiled on reading the account again. Now there was only one thing left to do. Going upstairs, he brought down and loaded his father's old service revolver. 

He was startled a moment by a sound. Something brushing... Oh, that bush by the side gate. I should have done something about that. 

Now, Bodie, he said to himself, don't bugger this up too... He began to raise the revolver. 

"Any tea?" asked Doyle from the doorway. He was smiling as he walked into the room. "Thought you'd be here," he added. 

Bodie stared at him. "How did you get in?" 

"Pantry window - you need a decent lock on it," said Doyle. "I'm on the small side, remember? Put that gun down, will you? You're making me nervous. Loaded, is it?" 

Bodie nodded dumbly, then put the gun down on the table and sank into a chair. He began to shake. 

Doyle was across the room, unloading the gun in a moment. "Bloody hell," he said. "You gave me a hell of a fright. Saw the notice. I'll get myself a drink, I need it." He poured himself a large brandy, keeping an eye on Bodie. "Would have expected you to finish this bottle," he remarked. 

"Didn't want it read out at the coroner's court that the deceased had partaken of a large quantity of alcohol," said Bodie. "Always sounds so sordid. Oh hell ..." He began to shake again. 

Doyle was across the room, holding him. "It's all right now, Bodie. Just hang on a little longer. You're coming home with me." 

"It's no good," said Bodie. "Don't want you involved - there's nothing you can do." 

Doyle snorted. "I'm already involved. Come on, I've got the car out the front. You can't see, can you? Just hold on to me..." 

Bodie got to his feet and allowed Doyle to guide him out of the house to the car. He didn't speak during the short drive. Doyle settled him in the kitchen, then insisted he had a hot drink, to which he had added one of his own sleeping-pills. After a valiant effort to keep his eyes open Bodie agreed he was very tired and lay down. Doyle waited till he was sure Bodie was sound asleep, then telephoned Dr Ryan, who came right over. 

"Well, he should sleep right through till morning," he remarked. "Now tell me what has happened." 

Doyle hesitated. "I found him in a very depressed condition," he began. 

"How depressed? Go on, man, I knew something was wrong but he wouldn't tell me anything." 

"With a gun in his hand," said Doyle. "I thought the best thing to do was to get a pill into him - better than booze - and call you." 

"Yes, I agree. Well, I don't think he'll move till the morning. I could send him to hospital if you would rather." 

"No," said Doyle. "Knowing Bodie, he'd just walk out, if he had to crawl, the way he feels at the moment. He's better here. I'll watch him." 

"Very good, I'll call in the morning then." 

Doyle saw the doctor out, then fixed himself some supper and settled down in a chair, a bad-tempered eye fixed on his charge. Trust Bodie to disturb his work ... 

 

Bodie did not stir till early morning, then looked round, blinking. 

"You're at my place," said Doyle. "Like some coffee?" 

"Yes, after the bathroom. Can you point me the way?" 

Doyle went over to him. "Come on then. Dr Ryan will be over shortly, so you'd better shave as well. Use my battery shaver. Head still giving you gyp?" 

"No, it seems easier this morning - just throbbing now and again." 

Shaved, Bodie looked round. "Doyle, how do I look?" 

Doyle surveyed him critically. "Pallid, with terrible bags under your eyes - much as usual in fact. Fancy any breakfast?" 

"Not sure," said Bodie doubtfully. However, after a sniff at the pan he managed a bacon sandwich. 

They ate in silence, before there was a knock at the door. 

"Dr Ryan," said Doyle. 

He let the doctor in, then strolled out into his garden. Still have to get this sorted out one day, he thought. After I've got Bodie sorted out. Could bloody murder him... 

Dr Ryan called him back in. "William would like to talk to you. Call me as soon as he makes a decision. But, Doyle, he hasn't any time left to waste if we are to try and save his life." 

Doyle nodded and went into the front room where Bodie was sitting in front of the fire. 

"That you, Ray?" 

"Yes. Are you ready to tell me everything now?" 

Bodie nodded. "I was badly injured on my last trip in the Middle East: mine splinters. You've seen some of the damage. There was a head wound...fragments. They got out what they could. What's left has started shifting...pressure building up, nerve damage,that sort of thing. I found out when I was in Dublin. I had a bad fall with a horse which shouldn't have happened, so they sent me for a check-up. They could operate but the odds aren't good. It's likely I'll still be blind and...not myself. Bad enough being blind and dependent but the other..." He shivered. "So I decided it would be better to finish it now." 

"And if they don't operate?" asked Doyle quietly. 

"Pressure will build up...haemorrhage and that's it," said Bodie. 

"No choice then," said Doyle. "You're going to have that operation. I'll ring Dr Ryan, get things moving. We're not waiting for the bloody National Health. I'll pack a bag for you. I'll get Jessie to mind my place and the cats." 

"Ray!" Bodie was on his feet looking, Doyle was pleased to see, much livelier in spite of his pallor, not to say displeased. Bodie opened his mouth to continue his protest but Doyle had not finished. 

"Look, Bodie, having invaded and disrupted my life, the least you can do is to try not to die on me. Be bloody annoyed with you if you do. I'm already pissed off at you about yesterday's performance, so shut your face for a while." 

He settled at the telephone and made the arrangements, then made lunch for Bodie. Dr Ryan would be over later. 

Bodie seemed more relaxed and Doyle assumed the extra pills Dr Ryan had given him would keep any pain to an acceptable level. They began to talk over the meal. 

"Bodie, would you like me to get in touch with your family? Tell 'em what's going on?" Doyle asked. 

"No. Charlie will hear anyway if I don't get through the operation. He'll be as mad as hell when he finds I've left everything to Ashley. Only right, of course, but he won't see it that way." 

Doyle stared at him. "Been having me on, haven't you? Ashley isn't your son after all. Lousy sod!" 

Bodie grinned. "You and half the village are assuming he is. No, he's my nephew, Stephen's child. Stephen was killed before they could get married - Pa had forbidden it. He had very old-fashioned ideas. He blamed me for Stephen's death - his car went over a mine on the Border. I was in the area with a patrol - only time I ever was: not army policy. We knew a British officer had been hurt but couldn't get to him. It wouldn't have helped anyway. He was too badly injured - died in hospital. Had a dust-up at his funeral. Things were said and I left. Never saw the old man again. I was in hospital in the Middle East when he had his final heart attack. Doesn't matter any more." 

"It does to you," said Doyle. "Bloody Irish. When you're fit, I'm going to unscramble your brains for you. And kick Charlie in the balls if he makes trouble!" 

Bodie grinned again. "He's not going to like you at all." 

"Good," said Doyle. "Is it true he had to marry Winnie Cosgrave?" 

Bodie choked over his coffee. "Slander, that is. No, Charlie doesn't approve of sex - it interferes with his squash." 

oOo 

The next day Doyle was sitting by Bodie's bed in the large modern hospital. "Met the fella that's going to do the job," he said. "He said the X-ray didn't look as bad as he expected. Now, about this family of yours, where will I find them?" 

"Why?" asked Bodie suspiciously. "It's nothing to do with them." 

"Bodie! Well, let's say I need to know for your funeral, or it's going to be very thinly attended." 

Bodie glared at him. "Don't want them there - it would spoil the day for me," he said. He brightened: "On second thoughts, be sure to invite Charlie and see I have a full requiem Mass: he'll hate it." 

Doyle looked at him with irritation. "I don't think I'll be enjoying it much either. Now will you give me his address?" 

"All right." Bodie gave the required information. "You won't like him," he added. 

"I don't like him now," said Doyle firmly. "What about that sister you have locked up somewhere in Ireland?" 

"She's in an enclosed Order, not Strangeways!" said Bodie. "No, don't tell her for now. She'll be putting in a word for me anyway. Ray, I wish I could see you." 

"You'll see me when you wake up afterwards. They're coming to throw me out now, I'll be back in the morning." 

 

Doyle sat back and glowered at the telephone. How much longer was it going to take to track down some tinpot army colonel? It was costing him a fortune in calls, too. 

The telephone rang. 

"This is Colonel Charles Bodie. I understand you have been trying to reach me, Mr Doyle?" 

"Yes, I have. Your brother William is having a serious operation in the morning. I thought you should know." 

"I see." The voice sounded uninterested. 

There was a long silence. 

"Look," said Doyle, "I haven't time to waste with you. Here is the hospital telephone number if you want to get in touch. If not, forget it!" He slammed the receiver down. 

 

He saw Bodie briefly the next morning. Bodie was very dopey with his pre-med and chuckled over Doyle's bout with Charlie. 

"Knew you wouldn't get on, Ray. Better this way. Thanks for everything." 

"Just you wait till you're fit again," said Doyle. "I've got a lot to say to you. I have to go now. See you when you wake up." 

 

Doyle settled into the visitors' room and began to write - anything to keep him occupied. He filled two notebooks and went and bought a third from the hospital shop. Four hours later he had drunk far too much tea, had a walk round the hospital and visited the Gents twice. He glanced at the notebooks. He had never thought of doing a short story before and it was coming along well; he might be able to do something with it, he thought, knowing if he lost Bodie he would never look at it again. 

A nurse came into the room. 

"Mr Doyle? Mr Pearson will see you now." 

Doyle followed her to the surgeon's office. 

"Well, Mr Doyle, he has come through the operation very well physically. Of course, he will be in intensive care for some time yet, but he is very strong and we are not expecting any problems." 

"Look," said Doyle, "I know how this could affect him, so stop flapping about and tell me how he really is." 

"Mr Doyle, as I have said, he has done well up to now. The condition had deteriorated -any further delay in operating and...well... There is good reason for optimism. We were able to clear away a lot of the damage but until he reaches a higher level of consciousness we cannot tell what effects there will be. It will be several days before we will know for certain. I suggest you go home and have a good rest. The hospital has your number?" 

"Yes," said Doyle, "and thank you." 

He was allowed a quick look through the door of intensive-care. Bodie's head was heavily bandaged and he was lying still and quiet. He was wired up to everything in sight, thought Doyle bitterly, feeling completely useless as he turned away. 

When he arrived at his hotel he found there was a message that a Mr Halliwell had called. Going to his room, Doyle returned the call. 

"Mr Doyle? Good. You wanted to know the result of the American negotiations - very satisfactory. They have agreed to our terms. Your cheque will be transmitted at the end of the week." 

"Good," said Doyle. "Thanks, Halliwell. I can't take it in now but you've certainly earned your fee. I'll be in touch later." 

"I quite understand. How is Mr Bodie?" Mr Halliwell asked gently. 

"They won't know for a few days. I'll be in touch. Thanks again. Bye." 

Doyle sat staring at the telephone, knowing he should go and eat. No, he would see what he could get here: the hospital might ring. His leg started to ache. And don't you bloody start, he ordered it. 

oOo

The next morning, after ringing to hear that there was no change in Bodie's condition, he went for a short walk, then made his way back to the hospital. The surgeon was talking to a military-looking man. 

"Ah, here is Mr Doyle now," said the surgeon, ushering both men into the waiting-room. "I must be on my way," he added, and left. 

The man looked at Doyle consideringly. 

"Colonel Bodie, I presume?" said Doyle. 

"Yes," said the colonel. "I couldn't get here any sooner. I rang, of course. It was decent of you to let me know. I'll have to arrange for William's affairs to be taken care of while he's...ill, and if he's not right afterwards, of course. Bad time for this to happen too." 

"Interfered with your Nato exercises, did it?" said Doyle. "There's no need for you to bother yourself. I'm looking after Bodie's affairs. You can go back to playing soldiers." 

The colonel's head came up. "I don't care for your tone," he remarked, "and as a member of the family I insist on..." 

"You can screw that," said Doyle. "Bodie didn't want you to know he was ill in the first place. Having met you, I can see why. I insisted you be told. He was probably afraid you'd sell Piper for cat's meat. He gave me his Power of Attorney, so you and Agnes can stop trying to muck him about." 

"Mr Doyle, can't we discuss this more privately? There's a pub over the road." 

"All right," said Doyle. "I'll just tell the desk where we'll be." 

They made their way over to the pub and settled in an alcove with a whisky each. 

The colonel, a forthright man, did not know what to make of Doyle. The fella seemed to be radiating dislike of him and he didn't think they'd met before. He had thought at first this was another of William's damn Irish scruffs, but a further look at Doyle's casually expensive clothes made him less sure. He cleared his throat. 

"I haven't been in touch with my brother for some time. Not from Dublin, are you?" 

"No," said Doyle. "I live in Larton. I met Bodie over a painting I bought when the manor contents were sold off. We've got to know each other quite well since then." 

"Not a military man, are you?" asked the colonel. 

"No," said Doyle. "Ex police - the Met. And just so we understand each other, I know there was one hell of a fight in your family and I'm not having you or any of Bodie's relatives mucking him about." 

The colonel blinked. "I could tell you that's none of your business but I'm sure that wouldn't impress you. William must have confided in you to let you handle his affairs and he's never been stupid in that way." 

Doyle looked at him curiously. "You don't look like Bodie at all." 

"No, I take after another side of the family. William looks like our father and is a romantic like mother, I'm afraid. Oh, we didn't mind when he was in the Middle East, doing good work there, but when the Troubles started he should have resigned his commission and showed where his loyalties lay. It was suggested to him that he did that - he wouldn't listen, of course. Then there was the trouble over the farm girl's brat - wanting the lad accepted in the family. No way were we having that! No sense of decency, that's William's trouble!" 

"As Ashley will inherit the best farm in the county," said Doyle, "I don't think he's missing anything; he wouldn't like you for an uncle either. I'd better be getting back to the hospital." 

"Mr Doyle, I know you may have a poor opinion of... Well, I know William isn't well off. If he needs any - " 

"We are fine for money," said Doyle. "That's the least of our problems. Now I'd like to get back to the hospital." 

"Yes, I must get back to my unit. I'll keep in touch with the hospital. Good day, Mr Doyle." 

Doyle nodded and headed back over the road. Stiff-necked sod, he thought. 

After an hour a doctor came over to him in the waiting-room and said Mr Bodie was showing signs of life: if he would care to visit him for a few moments? Doyle hurried out with the doctor. Bodie was still wired up but seemed to Doyle to have a much better colour; he was stirring. As they stood by the bed he opened his eyes and looked about with a bewildered expression. 

The doctor took his hand. "Mr Bodie, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand. Don't try to talk yet. Ah, good. Now, are you thirsty? Just squeeze again. Yes. We'll do something about that in a moment. Just rest for now." 

Bodie settled back, then he looked at Doyle, smiled and closed his eyes. The doctor led Doyle away from the bed. 

"Well, he can hear, see and understand," said the doctor with relief. "We don't want him to try to speak yet. After this type of operation the speech may be garbled - he knows the words but they come out wrong. He could find it very upsetting. We can explain what's happening and that the effect is usually only temporary. If his progress continues he could be out of intensive-care next week. But he will need care, treatment and a lot of patience for some time yet. As well as speech problems he could have a loss of mobility in some areas. He will need treatment in a rehabilitation centre. Have his family any thoughts on that?" 

"I'm dealing with that," said Doyle. "Any arrangements that need to be made, get in touch with me, the hospital have my home number." 

"Very well, Mr Doyle. We believe he is over the crisis now but he will be doing little but sleep over the next few days. We will, of course, get in touch should there be any change." 

Doyle stayed the rest of the day. 

oOo

The next morning, after a final visit, Bodie was sleepy but definitely looking better. Doyle returned to the village where he found everyone seemed to be waiting for news; he even had Lord Bicester calling - from his wine cellar by the sound. 

"Doyle, Jack Bicester. How's Bodie coming along? I'm sorry I couldn't call before - Agnes is back. Oh, good. I'll send the old chap in a bottle of the good stuff. Mother's posting you some books she says you will find interesting. Yes, the cat-basket got back all right. Little chappie settling in, is he? Good. Tell Bodie I was in touch..." 

Smiling, Doyle shook his head. 

oOo 

After a few days, satisfied that Bodie showed every sign of surviving, Doyle set off to London to see his agent. 

"I'm glad you were able to come up to London," said Mr Halliwell. "There are several matters I'd like to discuss with you. How is the research coming on?" 

"It's not at the moment," said Doyle. "Thanks to Bodie getting himself banged up. Still, I should be able to get back to it this week. It's going to be a long job anyway. I started on a short story that might develop - I'm just thinking about it at the moment." 

"I see," said Mr Halliwell. "Now, I'd like your opinion on this book. It's coming out next month, says it's the definitive word on the subject." He passed the volume over. 

Doyle looked at it casually, then started to read. "Is it now?" he muttered. "What is this garbage? Who wrote it?" 

"I believe you sat next to him at the literary luncheon," said Mr Halliwell. "Professor Lowe." 

"Him!" said Doyle. "Just what I'd expect from him!" 

"Actually," said Mr Halliwell, "there will be rather an interesting discussion on the next review programme: 'Historical Writing, Fiction or Faction?' Would you be interested in taking part? This book will be under discussion. Easter Makinson will be there too. You enjoyed her last book, even if you didn't agree with her conclusions." 

"I might," said Doyle. "Will it let me off any of those overseas trips? I hate flying, any travelling, come to that." 

"Of course," said Mr Halliwell. "I think this will be much more useful, and the fees paid by commercial television companies are so much more generous than the BBC. That's in three weeks' time then. I'll remind you of the date." 

oOo 

Mr Halliwell turned off his television set with a sigh of satisfaction. Raymond had really surpassed all his expectations with his relentless savaging of Professor Lowe's book, tearing his conclusions to shreds, citing references, chapter and verse to prove his statements; he had then joined with Miss Makinson, with whom he had a mild rivalry, to shred an expensive new drama series - fortunately on the other channel - which they both appeared to hold in little regard. 

 

Bodie had also watched entranced from his hospital bed, with his nurse. She, after breathing, "Isn't he gorgeous!" had gazed at Doyle in rapture, thumping her patient when he asked, "Who?" She then demanded a signed photo which was obtained after some vigorous arm-twisting on her behalf from Bodie. 

Professor Lowe, not a man to take all this lying down, and possessed of a character almost as abrasive as Doyle's, counter-attacked through the letter columns of the Times Literary Supplement (scene of many a bloody encounter). Doyle, displeased at his comments, also wrote letters. 

Bodie, when it showed signs of slackening off, managed a couple of letters himself - real stirrers signed 'Old Soldier, Tunbridge Wells', name and address with the editor, purely for self-preservation, of course. This kept the book and Doyle in the public eye, gratifying the publishers and Mr Halliwell. 

Bodie also received a visit from a very expensively befurred Amy, who presented him with a bottle of champagne - confiscated by the hospital afterwards - and regaled him with tales of her exploits with the Beaufort and the lack of intelligent conversation to be had in Blankshire. 

Receiving the news that Bodie would soon be fit to go for rehabilitation, Doyle went down to see him and make arrangements. After seeing the doctor he went off to the ward where he found Bodie glaring out of the window. 

"Had a word with your doctor," Doyle remarked. "Should be able to ship you off to the country next Tuesday. What's that sour face for?" 

"I'm bored," said Bodie with a gusty sigh. "Can't even talk to anyone. All they have on their minds is their bowels - it seems to be an obsession with them. The nurses are just as bad and I've read everything I want to on the book trolley." He brightened. "My eyes are beginning to focus properly now. I even tried a Catherine Cookson but I couldn't find a horse in it anywhere." 

"Cheer up," said Doyle. "I went into W.H. Smith's and picked up everything I could find with a hoof on it! I wonder what happened to Westerns," he mused. "And here's some books from Halliwell - I think there are some on cricket for you. He sends his best wishes. Can't think why - you've set my work back months." 

Unmoved by this, Bodie began to look through the books. "I remember him from the luncheon," he remarked. "We had a good chat. Well, how's Piper, and what's the news from the village? And what have you been doing with yourself, apart from becoming a TV sex symbol? My nurses are daft about you." 

"That must be disappointing for you," Doyle remarked. "The village... Let's see. Maud said to tell you Jack Everard broke his leg at the Quarry Bank last weekend. Piper had to have a new set of shoes, and when I saw what they cost I had a word with him about picking his feet up. Mrs Stubbs' Alf, at the post office, has had his 'prostrate' operation - and you don't want to hear the details. Ashley had four gold stars at school, God knows what for. The new barmaid at the Brewers can't pull a pint properly - froth everywhere. The Village Players are doing 'A Royal Divorce' - as someone's granny said, it was a lovely cry. Jess will be in tomorrow with a cake for you. Amos has had his operation and he came through it fine. It's nice to have someone around who isn't sex mad!" 

"Wish they'd stuck to a whodunnit," said Bodie. "They were always good for a laugh." 

Doyle left him happily looking through the books. 

oOo 

The following Tuesday Bodie went off to rehabilitation, and within a few days Doyle received a letter from him, very carefully written, detailing his sufferings and progress and ending: 

'So, all being well I could be pretty fit in a month or so. The army's been in touch about a medical discharge. I'm not worried about that, I wouldn't be here at all if it wasn't for you. Life looks pretty good now. Thank you, Ray. Bodie. '

Doyle sniffed and went to look out of the window. He couldn't face the clutter on the table and so went out into the garden where he began to potter. Spotting the vicar in the distance he hurried back indoors and made some tea. He was just looking gloomily at his papers again when he noticed Bodie's letter and decided he would reply to that now. 

'Dear Bodie, I can't get over to see you this weekend, my deadline is getting close and I've been stuck with writing a screenplay. All Halliwell's fault of course. You know I keep going on about no-one getting to do a play or film of one of my books after the travesty they made of the last one? Well, yes, I know the critics liked it but I didn't! Well, he wheeled in this rep. from the BBC. They wanted to dramatise my first book. I told them it wasn't suitable, they said they'd make something of it. I said, Oh yes, I'm sure, but would I approve? Added that I never watched television unless you came over to see the Horse of the Year show in colour (I missed you this week, crunching apples and yelling at the riders. Ashley says he will be competing in the Pony Club trials next year - now there's a thought...). 

Anyway, to cut a long story short, I agreed to do a screenplay. Still not sure how that happened. They sent this small blonde person to give me guidelines - she knows it all. Still it's better than travelling round America lecturing to women's clubs. Halliwell said my last visit put back Anglo-American relations twenty years. Told him I was only speaking my mind to some damned Irish anyway. 

Trouble is, after re-reading my book, there are things I want to alter, so I'm up to my eyes in paper here. The first draft has to be ready by Friday. If it's acceptable I'll call on you later next week with a bottle, if not, I'll bring a bottle anyway. 

I don't believe half of the stuff you're writing me. Do what you're told for bloody once! Regards, Ray.'

 

Bodie smiled and turned to his other letter. 

'Dear Mr Bodie, I will pick up the package of books on my way home next Tuesday and drop off another. Your comments on 'At The Water's Edge' - yes, I do agree, it is drivel, but very well written drivel. As you said yourself, you couldn't put it down. Not a book you would read twice, but then publishers are interested in copies sold and not in a book's staying power these days. There are several more weighty volumes to come, the three-decker novel seems to be making a comeback. 

I see you share my appreciation of 'The Riven Heart'. Delightful, isn't it? It is meant to be taken seriously, of course. My wife has wept copiously over the other copy, another good sign. I'm sure it's going to be a great success. 

Mr Doyle informs me he is proceeding with his screenplay, having persuaded the BBC to take a revised version of the book. I suspect they are having nervous breakdowns in case he develops writer's block or something. I have advised them that he is very conscientious about deadlines. 

Till Tuesday then. Yours sincerely, A. Halliwell.' 

oOo 

Doyle looked about the room in surprise. "Very nice," he remarked. "I've stayed in a lot worse hotels than this. You're looking a lot better." 

"I feel it," said Bodie. "I can cross a room without falling over now. I still feel a bit shaky on the stairs but they say that will settle with time. I can start riding again in a month or two, as long as I wear a hard hat. I'm looking forward to going home, too." 

Doyle picked up a thick manuscript. "I knew you were a great reader but... Hey, this is from my publisher!" 

"I've been doing some reading for them and Mr Halliwell," said Bodie. "It's great. I didn't know they'd pay you to read books. He drops 'em off, I read them and write a sort of essay on them. He gives me another load to read." 

"Are these your notes?" asked Doyle. "Can I look?" 

"Sure, go ahead. What have you been doing with yourself? How's the screenplay coming on?" 

"Hang on a minute!" said Doyle, "I'm reading. Well, you're a surprise. I thought you just had hay between the ears. I'm starting the second draft tomorrow. They seem happy with it so far. It needs some alterations but I'm getting the hang of things so I won't be able to complain about this one - unless they put that twerp who was in the last one in it! Anyway, what's the programme for you now?" 

"Another month here, then I have to go to Dublin. The army want to look me over for the medical discharge. I'll get a pension of course. How's Piper doing?" 

"He's fine," said Doyle. "I'm sorry about the army. Will you be coming back to England?" 

"Where else would I go?" said Bodie. "I always meant to come back to England for good eventually." 

"And you'll be able to manage financially?" asked Doyle worriedly. 

Bodie shrugged. "As long as I can keep a roof on the house, my horse fed and the Hunt fees paid, I'll be happy." 

Doyle sighed. It occurred to him that something needed to be done about Bodie's very cavalier attitude to money; he would have to instil some realism into his affairs. (Many happy years later Doyle reminded himself of this but had, by then, almost given up on the problem.) 

"You said you were bringing a bottle." The plaintive voice broke in on Doyle's musings. "I'm allowed alcohol now you know," it went on. 

"In moderation," said Doyle, producing a bottle of single malt. 

Bodie happily passed over a glass and a tooth mug. "Once I've got the army sorted out," he said, "I could go back home, I don't need any more convalescence." 

"Forget it," said Doyle. "Your uncle has lent us his place at Bray. I'm surprised to find you have one respectable relative. I'm coming over with you to see you don't overdo things. I rather fancy a seaside holiday, I haven't had one in years. You can go off with your bucket and spade while I get on with my writing." He ignored Bodie's snort of disgust. 

oOo 

Bodie finally passed as 'safe to be let loose' as Doyle put it, they flew to Dublin, Bodie returning to McKie Barracks while Doyle was invited to stay with his history professor uncle. Then Bodie appeared with a request that Doyle join him in a farewell dinner in the Officers' Mess. 

"For heaven's sake, Bodie. What will I talk to a room full of soldiers about? Anyway, won't they think it's odd you inviting me?" 

"Of course not," said Bodie. "You can talk about anything but politics and religion - they're both banned. You can keep an eye on me to see I don't go over the top. Besides, Captain Higgins wants to discuss his theory about Kit Marlowe with you." 

"That's all I need," growled Doyle. "Another bloody amateur sleuth. You know I hate this kind of thing." 

"You're just mad because you have to put on a suit and a tie," said Bodie, satisfied he would get his way. 

 

The evening turned out better than Doyle had expected, thanks to an excellent meal and a very enlivening discussion with Captain Higgins on his Marlowe theory, which did not include a reference to the plays of Mr William Shakespeare. From that they moved on to the Campden Wonder and Doyle set out the seventeen theories he had evolved so far. By 3 a.m. they had boiled them down to six. Then the bar closed and he had to prise Bodie away from his colleagues, with whom he had apparently spent most of the evening discussing the distressing incidence of glandular fever in horses and terrible disasters in the hunting field. Doyle made a note to get on with his article on mental weaknesses among the horse-riding fraternity. 

"I was offered a job," said Bodie. "Chef d'Equipe when the team travels abroad. Think I'll take it. What do you think?" 

"Should suit you," said Doyle. "Does it pay well?" 

"No, but you have a great time. Get to travel as well." 

"Oh, god," said Doyle.   
oOo

Doyle looked out of the cottage window. It was still raining, he noted gloomily. He could see Bodie making his way up the beach. He's walking much better now, he thought, even with that bloody calliper on his leg. 

Now what are you going to do about him, Doyle? 

Bodie shook the rain from his hair and looked about. "Anything to eat, I'm starving?" he asked. 

"Not unless you fancy a rock-hard loaf with baked beans, and I was saving that for breakfast," said Doyle. "Know any good chip shops round here?" 

"Follow me," said Bodie, plunging back out into the rain. 

"Bodie, it's pouring!" 

"Naw, just a light Irish mist, this. Come on, you won't melt!" 

After a quick dash through the rain, they found themselves in the White Swan Fish & Chip Emporium. Doyle looked about, entranced. 

"Didn't believe these places still existed - a sit-down chippy with oilcloth on the tables and plates of bread and butter! They should get a preservation order out on it." 

"Yeah, better than propping up old Georgian buildings," said Bodie. "Come on, what are you having?" 

They settled for large plates of fish and chips and mushy peas, with onion rings, followed by a giant pot of tea and two mugfuls of Guinness. 

"They make it from the Liffey," said Bodie. 

"I hope not - I've smelt that river. God, it tastes like they boiled iron filings in it. Good blow-out anyway," said Doyle. 

"Great stuff," said Bodie, working his way down his jar. "Put this in your horse's mash and he'll leap like a flea. We should be back in time for the hunt next month too," he added, his eyes glazing. "Did I tell you...?" 

"Yes, you did," said Doyle. "I don't know why I bother with you - nothing but hay between your ears." 

"Don't you?" said Bodie. "Well, maybe it's the sexual mystique of the man on a horse - power unleashed and all that sort of thing." 

"Been reading Lawrence again, have you?" said Doyle. "Give you ideas, that will." 

"I know how to blow up railways already," said Bodie. "I teach a course on it." 

"Bodie..." Ray gazed at him suspiciously; a candid blue eye gazed back. He looked out of the window. "My God, it's stopped raining - let's go." 

They walked back along the beach. After a moment Doyle heeled off his trainers and began to walk along the tide-line, beachcombing. 

"Starfish," said Bodie, pouncing. "Want to take it home and dry it off?" 

"Put it back!" said Ray. "Poor little bugger; worse than a kid, you are." 

 

They settled by the fire in the evening, Bodie staring into the flames. Doyle was silent for a while, before he said: 

"Look, Bodie, I know you fancy going to bed with me." 

"More than that," said Bodie. "I think it's time we settled down. You know," he grinned, "with an Aga and all." 

Doyle considered that for a moment. "It's not that I'm not... attracted to you. God knows why, you're not my type at all - but it just wouldn't work." He got up and began to pace about. "Look, Bodie, I'm a bad risk in the living together department - if that's what you had in mind?" 

He glanced at Bodie, who nodded. 

"Yes, I was afraid it was. I always get too involved with my work, it's the way I am. My marriage... We weren't suited, but that aspect didn't help. Only David kept us together, and when he was killed there was nothing left. She's remarried, seems happy enough. People said I should remarry, have a family - as though David was a puppy to be replaced. I didn't want a bloody family: I wanted him back!" He stopped and sniffed hard. "You wouldn't understand." 

"I have Ashley," said Bodie. "I think I know how I'd feel if anything happened to him." He got up and walked over to where Doyle stood. "Ray, I wouldn't make you unhappy for the world. You saved my life and - " 

"I don't need any of your gratitude," snapped Doyle. "If you're thinking of handing your body over like the maiden to the village squire - " 

Bodie chuckled and then began to laugh. Outraged, Doyle looked at him, then started to laugh himself. 

"Oh, hell," he said finally. "I must have sounded like a penny book. Go on, get the whisky and pour us a dram." 

"Tell you what," said Bodie as he poured two generous measures. "Let's just see how things go. You know how I feel. You're not happy about it - yet. There's plenty of time. I'm a patient man." 

"You're going to have to be," said Doyle wryly. "And get off that leg: you haven't had your rest today." 

"Oh, shit," said Bodie. 

oOo 

Six months later Doyle sat on the paddock fence at Highgreen Farm, chewing an apple and watching Bodie struggling to get the unschooled hunter into some sort of order. Strong, willing but basically dumb, Doyle decided, as the animal again confused its leg change and almost fell over its own hooves. Bodie eased it to a walk and came over to Doyle. The horse, seeing the apple in his hand, brightened considerably. 

Doyle sighed and relinquished the unchewed half, patting the soft nose. "There's a good fella," he crooned. "He is trying, you know, Bodie." 

"I know," said Bodie. "That's all that's stopping me advising Jack to have him turned into horse-burgers." 

"Bodie! Look, if he decides not to keep him, put in a bid for me, will you? Got a lovely nature, haven't you?" He pulled out another apple. 

"You're a bad influence," said Bodie. "Look, the last thing you need is a dim-witted hunter. Go out on this ejit and you'll both break your necks." 

"Not for hunting," said Doyle. "Mug's game, that is. I just want a good, sound hack. Be fine for that, wouldn't you, Flash?" 

"Flash!" snorted Bodie. "Come on, Merrylegs, try and get your act together." 

Afterwards, leaning on the stable partition, watching Bodie carefully rubbing down the hunter while Flash ate his horse nuts with noisy appreciation, Doyle realised it was not the most romantic of venues - unless an overpowering smell of horse turned you on. But... Bodie's hands were having a very definite effect on him as he watched them moving over the glossy coat. 

Not fair keeping Bodie on a string either, and I bet he's noticed, he thought crossly. Better get it over with. 

"Bodie..." He stopped and cleared his throat. "I don't think this is going to be a good idea but I'd like you to stay overnight. And we might consider a more permanent arrangement. See how we go on. What do you say?" 

"Well," said Bodie, "I would have liked that said with more enthusiasm. Still, it saves me getting a bottle of whisky and seducing you this weekend like I planned. But honestly, Ray, as a proposal that was the pits! But it was all you! Look, get the handkerchief out of my jacket pocket, will you. It's hanging over there." 

Doyle went over to it. "Which pocket? Yuck! What's this?" He held up a sticky mass. 

"Chuck that away, it won't be worth eating now. No, top pocket inside." Doyle pulled out a carefully knotted silk handkerchief. "That's it," said Bodie. "Go on, it's for you. I've been carrying it round long enough." 

Doyle unwrapped a small silver ring. 

"What's this, an engagement ring?" he asked, turning it curiously. 

"No, an Irish wedding ring. Don't think they could afford gold. Found it in my grandmother's work-box. She gave it me. Always said I'd give it to the one I settled down with. You're it, so stick it on and you can get me one later." 

Doyle blew his nose. "Wish you weren't such a bloody romantic, Bodie. I'm not likely to change my ways to accommodate you, you know." 

Bodie grinned. "I know. Is that all you have to say to me?" 

"No," said Doyle. "Jessie's in the kitchen, jamming and Ashley's at school, so you can put down that bloody curry-comb and come over here. If you don't think it will frighten the horse?" 

"What did you have in mind?" said Bodie, coming over. 

Doyle slid his arms round his neck. "Just this, and if you giggle I'll slay you." 

"Who's giggling?" said Bodie, returning the embrace. 

They were both breathing hard when they separated, leaning back against the partition, looking at each other. 

"I don't think that's going to be a problem," said Doyle. "But remember, Bodie, I'm not going to be another scalp in your belt," he warned. 

"You talk too much," said Bodie, pulling him back into his arms. 

oOo 

A few months later Doyle looked up from the malfunctioning toaster. "I wondered where you'd got to, shoving off before breakfast," he remarked. "We're going to have to get a new toaster - there's nothing between black and cream on this today." 

Bodie, looking remarkably tidy for early morning, beamed at him. "I went to collect my post and some other things," he remarked. 

"Anything interesting?" asked Doyle vaguely, as he gave up on the toaster and began to slap margarine on his bread. 

"An invite from Amy for her next Hunt Ball. She says she's looking forward to seeing you again." 

"Forget it," said Doyle. "I remember the last one. The buffet was awful and I'm not having that raving nymphomaniac crawling all over you again." 

"Getting a mite possessive, aren't you?" said Bodie smugly. 

"Yes, and you'd better remember it. Want some coffee?" 

"Yes. I have a cheque too." He passed the slip of paper over. 

Doyle sat down. "My God. Have you been flogging our story to The Sun?" 

"No, I sold the Manor to the County Council. They want to turn it into a village centre and weekend residential college. Seemed a fair price, so I let 'em have it. Oh, and there's a letter from Charles - he's disgusted and won't be visiting." 

"Good," said Doyle. "That's a weight off my mind. What do you think? Shall we put in that bid for Parsons Farmhouse?" 

"With enough land for a paddock and stabling," said Bodie. "Then I can have Piper nearby. It'll stop us falling over each other all the time like we do here and I can stop being an occasional overnight guest." 

"I like the order of merit," said Doyle. "It should be big enough to keep you out of my way. I still think you'll interfere with my work though." 

"Nonsense," said Bodie. "I'm going to be very good for you, I'll stop you turning into a cross-grained old recluse. Oh, this is yours as well." He tossed a bridle over. 

Doyle stared at him. 

"Well, you wouldn't let me bring him in the kitchen," said Bodie sadly. "Flash is waiting for you down at Jessie's. I bought him off Jack for you when I knew the deal would go through." 

"Bodie, you... Thanks. We better get that bid in for the farm. It is time we settled down properly, with an Aga and all that," said Doyle smiling. 

oOo 

Bodie walked into the warm bright kitchen of the farm they had owned for the last two years. He was wearing his oldest breeches and boots, was unshaven and exuding a strong smell of horse. He carelessly dropped a bundle of leathers on one of the basket chairs and began to make a pot of tea. Trailing in after him came a damp, dejected-looking Border collie. Frobisher and Amos, who normally defended Doyle's study against all comers was making one of his rare visits to the kitchen. Amos took one sniff at the dog and departed, hissing vigorously. Bodie, now with a mug of tea, settled himself by the Aga with a tattered copy of Horse and Hound. He poked the dog, now steaming happily in the warmth, with his boot. 

"You need a bath, Sam," he said, then took a long swallow of tea with pleasure. 

The telephone rang and he ambled over to it. 

"Parsons Farm. Ah, the BBC is it? Sure an' now Mr Doyle is away at the moment. You're talking to his stableman..." Bodie went on, lying happily in a brogue that would have raised eyebrows in Moore Street, Dublin. Mission completed, he replaced the receiver. 

The door flew open. 

"My God!" said Doyle. "What has that dog been rolling in?" He flung open a window. "No wonder the cats joined me." 

He was giving off danger signals of a very high order as he searched, muttering, in the fridge then the freezer. 

"We are out of orange juice," he remarked aggressively. Bodie, who had been watching him with interest, poured another mug of tea. 

"You drank the last at 3 a.m.," he remarked tranquilly. 

"Engraved on your memory is it?" said Doyle, tipping the leathers off the chair and settling himself in it. He accepted the mug of tea. "I knew it was a mistake settling in together. I'm sick of sleeping with someone who always smells of horse and vapour rub." His remark, however, lacked bite. 

"You spilt some on me and I'd just got off to sleep with my bad back," said Bodie sadly. "You can always move back into your own room, you know," he offered. 

"Nothing doing. I need someone to talk to when my insomnia's bugging me. Who was that on the phone?" 

"The Beeb. I gave them the message as instructed, said you'd be out till very late." 

"Just as well," said Doyle. "The mood I'm in now I'd tell 'em what to do with the script changes they want. You need a shower - and take that damned dog with you." 

"Finks, those cats are," said Bodie as he finished his tea and went to the bathroom. Hearing the shower start up Sam, barking happily, rushed after him. 

Doyle sighed and began to forage through a stack of cake tins. "If you've eaten the last of the cake, Bodie..." he muttered. "No, still some left." He stretched out and began to slurp his tea, listening to the sounds of splashing and woofs of delight from the bathroom. 

Bodie appeared shortly thereafter, looking distinctly cleaner in his bathrobe and holding a tin of Deep Heat. He looked hopefully at Doyle. 

"Isn't life romantic," said Doyle. "Come here then." He surveyed the heavily bruised shoulder and back. "I told you to watch that bloody horse. I knew he was a bad 'un. If Jack Bicester sends you another like that you're sending him right back! Bloody teeth marks, too." 

"Bound to get the odd rogue," said Bodie placidly. "Um, that feels better. How's chapter seventeen coming on?" 

"It isn't," said Doyle glumly. "I just tore up fifteen pages. Feel like sticking my head in the oven." 

The telephone rang again. 

"Answer it, will you, Bodie, and please don't do your Old Mother Riley impersonation." 

Bodie picked up the receiver. "Morning, Mr Halliwell." He glanced at Ray, who shook his head violently. "No, Ray has his 'Do Not Disturb' notice up. Can I give him a message? Right." He scribbled on the pad by the telephone. "Good, I've got that. Yes, he's up to his elbows in paper. I'm fine. Well, yes, a horse did try to splatter me over the yard - hazard of the job. Oh, Ray and I will probably be up for the International at the end of the month. Right, I'll tell him. Bye." 

Bodie headed into Doyle's study, where he found him glaring at a pile of papers, with Amos draped round his neck like a sort of live fur tippet. Bodie paused to tickle Amos under the chin. 

"Stop that, his purring goes right through me," growled Doyle. "What was the message?" 

Bodie passed him the paper. Doyle read it and swore. 

"I'll have to find an excuse to miss that, see what you can come up with." 

Bodie looked round and nodded to his ancestor's portrait on the wall. "He looks well here. I'm not getting him back, am I?" 

"Nope, he brought us together. What are you hanging round for?" 

"To drag you out," said Bodie. "You've been cooped up for over a week with that damned book. You need some fresh air. I'll go and make sandwiches." 

"Bodie! Just a minute!" Doyle hared after him. 

Bodie was peering into the fridge. "Good, there's some cold ham left. Cheese and pickle all right for you? Couple of cans of beer. I'll get the horses saddled - we'll go for a good ride up by the old racecourse." 

"Bodie, I'm too busy. I have to get this chapter right." 

Bodie slung the bag over his shoulder. "Come on, Ray. I missed having you out with me lately." He looked like a beseeching, blue-eyed spaniel. 

Doyle sighed. "I don't know why I let you get away with it. Here - " he went to a drawer and tossed over a large bar of fruit and nut. "Put that in too. I could do with a breather." 

 

Ray leaned back comfortably against the tree-trunk. Bodie was sketching beside him, Flash and Piper were grazing steadily and he had been scribbling in his notebook. 

"I think I've thought of a way round it," he said to Bodie. 

"Um," said Bodie. He had no idea of what 'it' was, but so long as Ray was happy... 

Doyle looked at him a moment. "Turned out well, hasn't it?" he remarked. 

"I said it would." 

"Fine to be as confident as you are," said Doyle. "And it's our anniversary next month - bet you forgot. What are you getting me?" 

"I'm taking you to Switzerland," said Bodie. "Lucerne. You'll like it. First class travel, too. Well, for most of us." 

"Hang on," said Doyle, sitting up. "Who is 'us'? Us as in you and me, or us as in - ?" 

"Only sixteen of us," said Bodie, "and that's counting the horses. The army said fine - you're going as my assistant. Just like Paris. You enjoyed yourself there," he added brightly. 

"Enjoyed myself! I spent the whole time throwing people up onto horses after you put your shoulder out, and being an agony aunt for the lads. All I didn't do was see Paris, except from the windows of a horsebox! Besides, they'll suspect about us - I'm surprised they haven't already." 

"It doesn't happen in Ireland," said Bodie. "And if by chance it did, as you've found yourself a decent Irish fella to live with, well, that makes it all right. Now, are you going to see the Alps with me?" 

"Yes," sighed Doyle. "And if I don't see them there will be trouble. Let's see what you've sketched. Not bad. I heard from Captain Higgins this morning, we have our theories down to two now. I'll give him a mention in the book if I ever crack it." 

"You will," said Bodie. "Never give up on anything, you. Got me, didn't you?" 

"The Campden Wonder is a harder nut than you ever were," said Doyle. "Anyway, was worth it. Now, pin your ears back and listen. Remember where I was stuck? Well this is how I see it going now." 

He began to read.


End file.
